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1 



^*^ 



THE POETS 



NINETEEKTPI CENTURY. 



SELECTED A^'D EDITED 

BY THE 

REV. ROBERT ARIS WILLMOTT 

tNCCMBENT OF BEABWOOD. 



WITH ENGLISH AND AMERICAN ADDITIONS, 



AEBASGED BY 

EVERT A. DUYCKIXCK, 



EDITOE OF THE CYCLOPEDIA OF AMEBICAS LlTER.VTl'EE. 



ILLUSTRATED AVITII ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTT-TWO ENGRAVINGS, 
DRAWN BV EMINENT ARTISTS. 



XEW YORK: 
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 

F K A N K T, I N 6 Q U A E E. 



; I 9.57 



Entered, according to act of Congress, in the year one thousand eight hundred 
and fifty-scveir, hy 

HARP E R &BROTIIERS, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District of New York. 



PREFACE. 



Very suggestive of musical and pleasant thoughts is the Picture- 
gallery which this Preface opens ; and among them is the recollection 
of the manner in which these choice Word-paintings have been con- 
tributed by the Authors, or their representatives ; always with liberal 
promptness, and sometimes with expressions of personal good-will, t(j 
be gratefully treasured. Nor can I forget the generous enterprise of 
the Publishers, and the tasteful skill of the Brothers Dalziel, by whom 
the grace and the beauty of the pencil have been translated into the 
popular language of their own Art. 

The Volume embraces a period of about eighty-five years, for the 
tirst Canto of the Minstrel appeared in 1771; Beattie survived Cowper 
only three years ; while Percy, exchanging the friendship of Goldsmith 
for that of Scott, lived into the eleventh year of this century. The 
dates of these poets might seem to exclude them from our calendar ; 
but, in truth, the fancy of the pi'esent age was largely inspired and 
moulded by the past ; and the sentiment of the Minstrel, the natural- 
ness of the Task, and the simplicity of the Eeliques, very strikingly 
reappear in Campbell, Wordsworth, and Scott. Nor has the embel- 
lished landscape of Darwin been without imitators ; while the foot- 
prints of Rogers arc easily traced in the trim garden-paths of Hayley. 
One member of the classic band Avill be less familiar to general read- 
ers : I allude to Professor Cl'owe, whose descriptive poem is written 
with fine taste, and in choice numbers. The traveller, walking from 
Charmouth to Lyme, discovers Lewesdon Hill on the right hand, and 
forming one of the boundaries to a rich vale chequered by enclosures. 

Our Poetry owes many beauties to womanly genius, and in the fol- 
lowing pages some specimens of it will be found. The "Psyche" of 



iv PREFACE. 

Mary Tighe yet lives in the memory of Taste ; but Scotland furnishes 
a gi'eater name : " If you wish to speak of a real poet," Scott said to 
Ballantyne, "Joanna Baillie is now the highest genius of our country." 
He numbered the description of Orra's madness with the sublimest 
scenes ever written, and compared the language to Shakspeare's. The 
Songs of Mrs. Hemans aftbrd a lively contrast. It was her misfortune 
that she wrote to live, instead of living to write. Her compositions, 
therefore, are unequal ; but in her best pieces the eye is delighted by 
the glow and colour, and the ear is soothed by the varied cadence — 
often delicious, never harsh. The visionary tenderness and romance of 
Mrs. EadclifFe are breathed over the Address to Melancholy, and the 
Song of a Spirit. The quotation from Hannah More was chosen for 
the subject which it offered to the Artist, who has so happily embodied 
it in his r/enre sketches. The chaste elegance of Mrs. Barbauld is of a 
higher order ; and very true poetic feeling and utterance are conspicu- 
ous in the local pictures and the tender Sonnets of Charlotte Smith, 
which Miss Seward, clever in her spite, called " everlasting duns upon 
pity." 

One name in the tuneful Sisterhood has a home interest for me. 
It seems but yesterday that the shutters were shut in " Our Village," 
and Mary Russell Mitford went from among vis. "\Miile turning over 
the leaves of this book, I have thought of the kindly welcome with 
which she would have greeted the illustration of her own " Eienzi," 
if I had taken it to her on one of these soft autumn days which she 
loved so much, and when her familiar lanes and dingles wear their 
sweetest colours. She had compared her old abode to a bird-cage that 
might be laid on a shelf, or hung upon a tree ; and her latest dwelling 
was hardly less odd, or dwarfish. But there, also, she had a cool re- 
treat out of doors, in the shade of her garden, and I see her sitting 
in it now with table and book; constant to all her little heresies of 
taste ; reading the interminable Richardson every year, preferring 
wood - embers to the fairest moonbeams that ever lighted lovers, and 
panegyrising the nightingale's song, if accompanied by the moan of the 
pigeon. 

But the Brotherhood has names, also, to be remembered by me 
with very sincere regard. 'Wlien I read the description of the dying 



PREFACE. V 

Adam by James Montgomery — a passage exquisite in conception, im- 
agery, and language — the author is before me as 1 saw him in my 
early youth. Lisle Bowles is another name to be marked with a white 
stone. A delightful spot was Bremhill — indeed, is still — with the 
quaint garden, and the swans. Snow-drop and Lily, sailing up to the 
parlour window to inquire after their dinner, and Peter the hawk, and 
the Vicar holding his watch to his ear, to make sure that he had not 
grown deaf since breakfast. Southey visited the Parsonage when the 
loveable old man was in his seventy-third year, and presented to the 
eye of his friend the most entertaining mixture that could be of un- 
tidiness, simplicity, benevolence, timidity, and good-nature ; but nobody 
smiled at his oddities more heartily than the o^vaier. The poetical 
merits of Bowles are great. His sonnets delighted Coleridge, and even 
Byron acknowledged the excellence of The Missionary. 

Of all the elder poets of our time, my examples are less numerous 
than I had hoped to give. The lines of Wordsworth on Tintern Ab- 
bey are omitted from want of room ; and the most striking effort of 
Southey's imagination, the agony of Kailyal at her father's flight, was 
ill adapted for pictorial use. The fame of Coleridge, however, AA'ill not 
suffer loss by resting on Genevieve, who has caught a new grace from 
the hand of JMUlais. Among these earlier poems, the reader will be 
attracted by the Legend of Kilmeny, which, for a moment, lifts the 
Shepherd to the side of Burns ; by the sunshiny morals of Praed, who 
reminds me of an Ariosto brought up in England ; and by the sea- 
views and the Dutch painting of Crabbe. 

If I could have turned my Preface into an illustrated catalogue, 
these poems would have furnished agreeable notes; for to many some 
little story is attached ; as in the case of Keats, whose Ode to the 
Nightingale was written in the spring of 1819, when the fatal disease 
lay so heavy at his heart, that Coleridge, meeting him in a lane near 
Highgate, remarked — "There is death in that hand." The stanzas 
beginning " The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill" become more affecting, 
when we are told that Scott composed them during the languor of 
sickness, and that they mai-k the very spot of their birth, now clothed 
by rich woodlands, the work of the Poet's hand. The Elm Tree 
might also claim a paragraph, to tell of the solemn Avenue which 



vi PREFACE. 

inspired it ; and certainly " Umbrageous Ham" has not been mused in 
by a more genial visitor, since the frequent feet of Thomson broke the 
shadows. The noble verses — "Wine of Cyprus" — should recall the 
memory of the blind Scholar to vi^hom they were addressed ; and the 
compositions of Frances Brown wUl lose a charm if the shadow on 
her eyes be . forgotten. But of living Poets I may not speak. They 
are here to speak for themselves in tones of harmony, grandeur, and 
pathos, to which few ears, I suppose, will be deaf. The list might 
have been enlarged, but a great Constituency can only be represented 
by a few Members. 

R. A. WiLLMOTT. 

St. Catherine's, Ocioher 2. 1856. 



AMERICAN PREFACE, 

The volume of "Poets of the Nineteenth Century," edited by the 
Rev. R. A. WiLLMOTT, a most loving and judicious critic of English 
literature, is here preserved entire, with some important extensions. 
The selections have been increased from four hundred to six hundred 
pages, and a proportional addition has been made to the number of En- 
gravings. The new material, in both instances, will be found indicated 
in the Table of Contents. 

The work of Mr. AVillmott Avas confined to writers of his own coun 
try. In the present volume a liberal space has been given to American 
authors, illustrated by American artists. Additional illustrations of 
English poems are furnished from tlie pencils of painters of eminent 
merit — making the work a very comprehensive representation of the 
art of the day as applied to literature. 

New Yokk, November, 1857. 



CONTENTS. 



.1 Stai- prcfi.red to the Titles indicates matter added in the present America)} Ed'd'io7i. 



JAMES BEATJIE. 

THE rOET IN YOUTH 1 

MORNING LANDSCAPE 4 

CALM AND STORM 5 

A VALLEY AMONG THE HILLS 6 

RETIREMENT 8 



THOMAS PERCY. 

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY 47 

GENTLE RIVER 51 



GEORGE CRABBE. 

, A GIPSY ENCAMPMENT 55 

WILLIAM COWPER. ! marine views 57 

YARDLEY OAK 11 A GOOD VILLAGER 62 



LINES TO MY MOTHER's PICTURE 17 



WILLIAM IIAYLEY. 

THE VISION OF SERENA 



21 



JASIES HURDIS. 

RURAL SOUNDS 24 

CHARLOTTE SMITH. 

THE SWALLOW 26 

.SONNET WRITTEN AT TIIE CLOSE OF SPRING 29 

SONNET 30 

SONNET ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE NIGHT- 
INGALE lb. 

FROM "KE.VCIIY head" 81 



ANNA SEWARD. 



35 



ERASMUS DARWIN. 

MARCH OF CAMBYSES 36 

THREE IMPRESSIONS OF ANTIQUE GEMS 38 

TASTE •. 39 

WILLIA5I CROWE. 

LKWESDON IHLL 41 



THE PARTING LOOK 65 

MARY TIGHE. 

PSYCHE GAZING UPON THE LOVE-GOD 66 

ANN RADCLIFFE. 

TO MELANCHOLY 69 

SONG OF A SPIRIT 71 

ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD. 

A SUMMER evening's MEDITATION 73 

A PETITION 77 

HANNAH MORE. 

FLORIO AND HIS FRIEND 78 



W. LISLE BOWLES. 

RETURN TO OXFORD 88 

ON TIIE RHINE ib. 

THE CELL OF THE JHSSIONAKY 90 

THE HOME OF THE OLD INDIAN 92 

LANDING AT TYNEMOUTH 97 

TIIE BURIAL PLACE 98 

SUNRISE 100 



CONTENTS. 



SAMUEL ROGERS. 

THE OLD HOUSE 102 

MOTHER AND CHILD 104 



AIVIELIA OPIE. 

THE ORPHAN BOt's TALE 



106 



WILLIAM SPENCER. 

TO THE LADY ANNE HAMILTON 108 

* ■WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS..... 109 

LORD BYRON. 

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON Ill 

THE DREAM 123 

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 

WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES 131 

TO NIGHT 133 

SPRING 134 

JOHN KEATS. 

ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 135 

SAilUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 

LOVE 139 

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 

THE GLORY OF IMAGINATION 143 

A CLOUD PICTURE 144 

DION 146 

INCIDENT AT BRUGES 150 

A JEWISH FAMILY 152 

*A PORTRAIT 154 

*I.UCY 155 

* SONNET COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER 

BRIDGE 156 

CHARLES LMIB. 

HESTER. A REMEMBRANCE 157 

VERSES FOR AN ALBUM 158 

HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

THE HERB ROSEMARY 159 

ODE TO DISAPPOINTMENT 



WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 

* AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN 162 

* ROSALIE 163 

*A FRAGMENT 164 

RICHARD HENRY DANA. 

*THE husband's AND WIFE's GRAVE 165 

*A CLUMP OF DAISIES 169 

SAMUEL WOODWORTH. 

* the OLD OAKEN BUCKET , 171 

WALTER SCOTT. 

THE SUN U"PON THE WEIRDLAW HILL 172 

MARMION DYING 174 

THE BURNING OF ROKEBY 176 

THOMAS CAIVIPBELL. 

THE soldier's DREAM 180 

the exile of erin 181 

drinking song of munich 183 

lochiel's warning 184 

hohenlinden 187 

battle of the baltic 189 

ye mariners of england 191 

RICHARD HENRY WILDE. 

* STANZAS 194 

JAMES MONTGOMERY. 

THE DEATH OF ADAM 195 

JOANNA BAILLIE. 

THE PHRENZY OF ORIL\ 198 

JAMES GRAHAME. 

THE SABBATH 202 

SUNDAY TO THE SHIPWRECKED 204 

A SABBATH WALK IN SUMMER 206 

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. 

LAMBS AT PLAY 210 

160' THE farmer's BOY IN THE FIELDS 212 



CONTENTS. 



PiGK 

EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 

* BURNS 215 

*A poet's EPIiAPH 216 

* SPRING 217 

THOMAS MOORE. 

THE LAMENT OF THE PERI FOR UINDA.... 218 
NOUBilAHAL 220 

CHARLES WOLFE. 

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE 221 

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 

THE poet's bridal-day SONG 223 

A wet sheet and a FLO-WaNG SEA 225 

SIDNEY WALKER. 

TO A GIRL IN HER THIRTEENTH YEAR 227 

JAMES HOGG. 

THE RAPTURE OF KILMENY 229 

CHARLES SPRAGUE. 

* THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS 236 

* THE BROTHERS 237 

FELICIA HEMANS. 

THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO..... 238 

THE MESSAGE TO THE DEAD 242 

THE RETURN 243 

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 

RIENZI AND HIS DAUGHTER 245 

SONG 248 

LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. 

* THE INDIAN SUMMER 249 

* THE HOLY DEAD 251 

* TALK WITH THE SEA 252 

REGINALD HEBER. 

THE PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA 254 

* LINES ADDRESSED TO MRS. HEBER 258 

* LINES WRITTEN TO A MARCH 260 



PAGE 

ROBERT SOUTHEY. 

THE VISIT OF MADOC. A SCENE AMONG 

THE WELSH HILLS 261 

THE WORLD OF WOE 263 

THALABA IN THE TENT OF MOATH 265 

SUNLIGHT ON THE OCEAN 270 

CAROLINE BOWLES (MRS. SOUTHEY). 

* SUNDAY EVENING 271 

JOHN LEYDEN. 

TO THE EVENING STAR 275 

TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN 277 

JOHN CLARE. 

* MARY LEE 279 

JOHN G. C. BRAIXARD. 

* SALMON RIVER 282 

* THE BLACK FOX OF SALMON RIVER 284 

EDWARD COATE PINKNEY. 

* A HEALTH 286 

*A PICTURE-SONG 287 

CLEMENT C. MOORE. 

* A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS 288 

BERNARD BARTON. 

TO THE EVENING PRIMROSE 291 

WILLIAM SOTHEBY. 

RHINEFIELD, A LODGE IN THE NEW FOR- 
EST 293 

SKIRID, A HILL NEAR ABERGAVENNY 294 

ON CROSSING THE ANGLESEY STRAIT TO 

BANGOR AT MIDNIGHT ib. 

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

* SONG OF Marion's men 295 

* GREEN RIVER 298 

* the DEATH OF THE FLOWERS 301 

* THE LAND OF DREAMS 302 

* THE HUNTER OK THE PRAIRIES 304 



CONTENTS. 



* THE GLADNESS OF NATURE 307 

* WIILIAM TELL 308 

* AN INVITATION TO THE COUNTUV 309 

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 

* BRONX 311 

* SONNET 313 

FITZ GREENE HALLECK. 

* RED JACKET 314 

* CONNECTICUT 318 

* ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 32] 

HORACE SMITH. 

* THE FIRST OF MARCH 323 



GEORGE DARLEY. 

* HARVEST HOME 



824 



WINTHROP MACKWORTU PRAED. 

CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS 325 

THE VICAR 327 

A CHARADE 330 

THOMAS HOOD. 

THE ELM TREE. A DREAM IN THE WOODS 332 

THOMAS PRINGLE. 

AFAR IN THE DESERT 347 

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 

THE WATER -NTMPH APPEARING TO THE 

SHEPHERD 351 

RODERIGO AND JULIAN 353 

JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE. 

* NIGHT AND DEATH 355 

JOHN KEBLE. 



THE LILIES OF THE FIELD 356 

children's thankfulness 



HENRY HART MILMAN. 

THE HEBREW WEDDING 361 

THE COMING OF THE JUDGE 363 

LEIGH HUNT. 

an ITALIAN GARDEN 365 

ABOU BEN ADHEM 368 

GEORGE CROLY. 

THE ALHAMBRA 369 

FLORA 371 

SAMUEL FERGUSON. 

*THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR 372 

JOHN MOULTRIE. 

THE THREE SONS 375 

"forget THEE?" 378 

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. 

THE SPANLSH ARMADA 379 

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 

* JEANIE MORRISON 382 

* THEY come! THE MERRY summer months 385 

*A solemn conceit 386 

HENRY TAYLOR. 

AETEVELDE IN GHENT 389 

ERNESTO 396 



DAVID MACBETH MOIR. 

* C ASA WAPPy 



399 



RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. 

THE SPILT PEARLS 404 

RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 

* THE HUMBLE-BEE 406 

CHARLES FENNO HOFFMANN. 

358 * SPARKLING AND BRIGHT 408 



CONTENTS. 



GEORGE P. MORRIS. 

* WOODMAN, SPAKE THAT TREE 409 

* POETRY 410 

RALPH HOYT. 

* SNOW A WINTER SKETCH 411 

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS. 

■ BLESSINGS ON CHILDREN 416 

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 

" UNSEEN SPIRITS 419 

* LITTLE FLORENCE GRAY 420 



HENRY ALFORD. 

lYMN TO THE SEA 



423 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 

' THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE 426 

' THE END OF THE PLAY 429 

ALFRED TENNYSON. 

THE MAY QUEEN 432 

* MORTE I)' ARTHUR 439 

* EDWARD GRAY 449 

* THE GOOSE 451 

HREAK, BREAK, BREAK 454 

PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE. 

' FLORENCE VANCE 456 

' YOUNG ROSALIE LEE 457 

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 

MAUD MULLER 459 

* GONE 463 



EDGAR ALLAN POE. 

THE RAVEN 



466 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 

* hymn to the night 471 

"'resignation 473 

KING witlaf's drinking-horn 476 



HENRY THEODORE TUCKERMAN. 

* WEST POINT 482 

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 

* THE LAST LEAF 485 

* ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL 488 

ALFRED B. STREET. 

■' A FOREST NOOK 491 

ROBERT BROWNING. 

TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA 494 

EVELYN HOPE 497 

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 

WINE OF CYPRUS 499 

CHARLES KINGSLEY. 

THE THREE FISHERS 505 

THE SANDS OF DEE 506 

'■'THE DAY OF THE LORD 507 

WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN. 

* THE BURIAL-MARCH OF DUNDEE 508 

THOMAS DAVIS. 

THE SACK OF BALTIMORE 514 

EDWARD BULWER LYTTON. 

EVA 517 

BRYAN WALLER PROCTER. 

THE inSTORY OF A LIFE 526 

WITHIN AND M^TIIOUT 527 



EDWIN ATHERSTOKE. 

BATTLE SCENES 



530 



MARY IIOWITT. 

THE BALLAD OF RICHARD BURNELI 533 



MATTHEW ARNOLD. 



EXCELSIOR 479 '^ TO A GIPSY CHILD BY THE SHORE. 



547 



CONTENTS. 



W. C. BENNETT. 

* baby's shoes 550 

* Lilian's epitaph 561 

ALEXANDER SMITH. 

SCENE THE BANKS OF A RIVER 552 

PICTURES 554 

PHILIP JAIVIES BAILEY. 

A SUMMER NIGHT 557 

WORDS 558 

PORTRMT OF A LADY 559 

SHERIDAN KNOWLES. 

THE APPEAL AND THE REPROOF 560 

GERALD MASSEY. 

OUR TYEE WHITE ROSE 564 

THAT MERRY, MERRY MAY 566 

BABE CHRISTABEL 568 



WILLIA]\I ALLINGHAM. 

AUTUMNAL SONNET 



570 



CHARLES MACKAY. 

YOUTH AND SORROW 571 

FRANCES BROWN. 

THE HOPE OF THE RESURRECTION 574 

ALL THINGS NEW 576 



THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS. 

* SORRENTO 579 

* SAINT PERAY 581 

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

* THE SINGING LEAVES 584 

* LONGING 588 

* AUF WIEDERSEIIEN ! 589 

* PALINODE 590 



MARIA LOWELL. 

* THE ALPINE SHEEP 



592 



ALICE CAREY. 

* PICTURES OF MEMORY 594 

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 

* THE WAYSIDE SPRING 596 

* THE CLOSING SCENE 598 

BAYARD TAYLOR. 

* KILIMANDJARO 601 

* BEDOUIN SONG 603 

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 

* THE TWO BRIDES 605 

WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER. 

* NOTHING TO WEAR 606 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



^4 Star 'prefixed to the Titles indicates new Illustrations in the present American ]£dition. 



SUBJECT. AUTHOR. DEAWN EY PAGE 

The Poet in Youth Beattic B.Foster 1 

A Valley among tue Hills Ditto W. Harvey 6 

Retirement Ditto Ditto 8 

Yardley Oak Cowper Ditto 11 

Lines to my Mother's Picture Ditto /. Gilbert 1*7 

The Vision of Serena Hayley A.Hughes 21 

Rural Sounds Hurdis H. Weir 24 

The Swallow Charlotte Smith.B. Foster 26 

From "Beachy Head" Ditto Ditto 31 

The Shepherd's Home Ditto Ditto 33 

Taste Darwin T. Dalziel 39 

Lewesdon Hill Crowe B. Foster 41 

The Thirsty Lamb Ditto Ditto 44 

The Friar of Orders Gkay Percy ./. Tenniel 4Y 

Gentle River Ditto Ditto 63 

A Gipsy Encampment Crabbe B. Foster 65 

Marine Views: — Calm Ditto E. Duncan 59 

Storm Ditto Ditto 61 

A Good Villager Ditto J. R. Clayton 62 

To Melancholy Ann Radcliffe...B. Foster 69 

A Summer Evening's Meditation A. L. Barbauld .Ditto 73 

Florio and his Friend: — ^The Lounge Hannah More....!. Godtcin 78 

The Opera Ditto Ditto 86 

On the Rhine Bowles ./. D. Harding 89 

The Home of the Old Indian Ditto W. Harvey 95 

Landing at Tynemouth ......Ditto T. Dalziel 9*7 

Sunrise Ditto W. Harvey 101 

The Old House Rogers G. Hodgson 103 

The Orphan Boy's Tale Amelia Opie ....T. Dalziel 107 

The Prisoner of Chillon Byron F. M. Broivn 113 



xiv LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 

SUBJECT. AUTHOR. DRAWN BY I'AGF 

The Dream Ditto J. E. Millais, A.R.A .... 125 

Written in Dejection near Naples Shelley W. L. Leitch 131 

Ode to a Nightingale Keats B.Foster 135 

The Stream Ditto Ditto 138 

Love Coleridge /. K 3Iillais,A.Ii.A .... 139 

The Glory of Imagination Wordsworth B.Foster 143 

Incident at Bruges Ditto J. H. Clayton 151 

* The Husband's and Wife's Grave Dana J. H. Hill 165 

The Sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill Scott B.Foster 172 

Marmion — Dying Ditto ./. Tennicl 17 i 

The Burning of Rokeby Ditto Ditto 17G 

The Exile of Erin Campbell T. Dalziel 182 

Hohenlinden Ditto J. Gilbert 188 

Ye Mariners of England Ditto E. Duncan 192 

The Sabbath Grahame B. Foster 203 

A Sabbath Walk in Summer Ditto Ditto 207 

Lambs at Play Bloomfield W. Harver 211 

The Farmer's Boy in the Fields Ditto B. Foster 213 

The Lament of the Peri for IIinda Moore W. Harvev... 218 

The Burial of Sir John Moore Wolfe J. Gilbert 222 

A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea A.Cunningham.E. Duncan 225 

To a Girl in her Thirteenth Year Sid)ieij Walker.. J. R. Clayton 228 

The Rapture of Kilmeny : — 

The Land of Thought Hogg W. Harvey 232 

The Lanely Glen Ditto Ditto 234 

The Coronation of Inez de Castro Felicia Hemans.J. Gilbert 238 

RiENZi and his Daughter M. R. MitforJ...J. Tenniel 246 

* The Indian Summer Sigourncij /. H.Hill 249 

The Visit of Madoc Soicthey /. Gilbert 261 

Thalaba in the Tent of Moath Ditto W. Harvey 265 

To THE Evening Star Leyden G. Dodgson 275 

* A Visit from St. Nicholas C. C.Moore F. 0. C. Darley 288 

To the Evenixg Primrose B. Bartov Ditto 291 

Rhinefield, — A Lodge in the Net/ FoTiEST.Sofheby W. Harvey 293 

* Song of Marion's Men Bryant F. 0. C. Darley 295 

* Green River Ditto ./ H Hill 298 

* The Hunter of the Prairies Ditto F. 0. C. Darley 304 

* The Gladness of Nature Ditto J.H.Hill 307 

* Bronx Drake J. W. Casilear 311 

* Red Jacket Halleck F. 0. C. Darley 314 

* Connecticut Ditto Ditto 318 

The Vicar Praed ./. Gilbert 327 

The Elm Tree:— The Avenue T. Hood G. Dodgson 333 

The Woodman Ditto Ditto 339 



LIST OF ILLUSTKATIONS. xv 

SUBJECT. AUTHUil PRAWN BY PAGE 

Afar in the Desert Pringle W.Harvey o47 

Toe Wateu-Nymph appearing to the Shep- 
herd Landor F.E. Pickersgill, A.R.A. 351 

The Lilies of the Field Kehle B.Foster 356 

The Hebrew Wedding Milman E. H. Corbould 362 

An Italian Garden Leigh Hunt G. Hodgson 366 

The Alhambra Croly W. Harvey 369 

The Three Sons Moultrie /. Gilbert 375 

The Spanish Armada Macaulay Ditto 379 

Artevelde in Ghent ..Taylor J.R.Clayton 392 

The Spilt Fearls Trench W. Harvey 404 

* Snow — a Winter Sketch Hoyt F. 0. C. Barley 411 

* Blessings on Children...: Simms Ditto 416 

Hymn to the Sea Alford B. Duncan 424 

The May Queen Tennyson T. Dahiel 432 

New-ye.\r's Eve Ditto Ditto 434 

Conclusion Ditto Ditto 436 

Tailpiece Ditto Ditto 438 

* Mc«iTE d'Artiiur: — • 

* Excalibur Ditto '....D. Maclise 439 

* Death Scene Ditto Ditto... 447 

* Edward Gray Ditto ./. E. Mdlais 449 

* The Goose Ditto W. Mulrcady 461 

* Break, Break, Break Ditto C. Stanfield 454 

* Maud Muller Whitticr.... F. 0. C. Darlcy 459 

* The R.wen Poc Ditto 466 

* Hymn to the Kight Longfellow ./. Gilbert ... 47 1 

* Resignation Ditto Ditto 47 3 

* King Witlaf's Drinking-Horn : — 

*The Carouse Ditto Ditto 476 

* Monk Reading Ditto Ditto 477 

* Excelsior Ditto F. 0. C. Darby 479 

* West Point Tuckerman J. W. Casilear 482 

* The Last Le.\f Holmes F. 0. C. Darley 485 

* On lending a Punch-Bowl Ditto Ditto 488 

* A Forest Nook Street J. H Hill 491 

Two in the Cami'agna R. Browning -...E. A. Goodall 495 

Wine of Cyprus K B. Broxoning.J. R. Clayton 499 

The Three Fishers Kingsley T. Dahiel 505 

The Sack of Baltimore Davis James Godwin 514 

Eva: — The Maiden's Home Bulwer Lytton..J. Gilbert 517 

The Stranger Suitor Ditto T. Dahiel 520 

The Return Ditto Ditto 523 

The History of a Life Procter D. Edwards 526 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



Within and Without Ditto James Godwin 528 

Battle Scenes Atherstone E. H. Corbould 630 

Richard Burnell: — • 

Young Buknell and Alice Mary Howitt ....James Godwin 584 

The Marriage of Alice Ditto Ditto 540 

Burnell and Alice in the Temple 

Gardens Ditto Ditto 546 

The Banks of a River A.Smith B. Foster 553 

Pictures Ditto Ditto 555 

A Summer Night Bailey Ditto 55Y 

The Appeal and the Reproof Knowles /. Tenniel 560 

Our Wee White Rose Massey J. R. Clayton 565 

That Merry, Merry May Ditto D. Edwards 567 

AuTu^iNAL Sonnet Allingham G. Dodgson 570 

Youth and Sorrow Mackay E. H. Corbould 573 

The Hope of the Resurrection Brown Ditto 575 

* The Singing Leaves J.R.Lowell J. H. Rill 584 

* The Wayside Spring Read Ditto 596 

* Nothing to Wear: — 

*The Lady W. A. Bittler....A. ffoppin 006 

* The Beggar Ditto Ditto 616 




BEATTIE. 



THE POET IN YOUTH. 



Lo ! where the stripling, wrapt in wonder, roves 
Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine, 

1 



THE POET IN YOUTH. 

And sees on high, amidst th' encircling groves. 
From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents shine ; 
While waters, woods, and winds in concert join, 
And Echo swells the chorus to the skies. 
Would Edwin this majestic scene resign 
For aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies? 
Ah ! no ; he better knows great Nature's charms to prize. 

And oft he trac'd the uplands, to survey. 
When o'er the sky advanc'd the kindling dawn. 
The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain grey. 
And lake, dim gleaming on the smoky lawn : 
Far to the West the long, long vale withdrawn, 
Where twilight loves to linger for awhile ; 
And now he faintly kens the bounding fawn, 
And Aillager abroad at early toil, 
But, lo ! the sun appears ! and heaven, earth, ocean smile. 

And oft the craggy cliff he lov'd to climb, 
When all in mist the Avorld below was lost. 
What di'eadful pleasure ! there to stand sublime. 
Like shipwreck'd mariner on desert coast. 
And view th' enormous waste of vapour, toss'd 
In billows, lengthening to th' horizon round, 
Now scoop'd in gulfs, with mountains now emboss'd! 
And hear the voice of mirth and song rebound. 
Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar profound ! 

In truth, he was a strange and wayward wight, 
Fond of each gentle and each dreadful scene. 
In dai'kness and in storm he found delight; 
Nor less, than when on ocean-wave serene 
The southern sun diffus'd his dazzling sheen. 
E'en sad vicissitude amus'd his soul ; 
And if a sigh would sometimes intervene, 
And down his cheek a tear of pity roll, 
A sigh, a tear so sweet he wish'd not to control. 

2 



BEATTIE. 

See, in the rear of the warm sunny shower 
The visionary boy from shelter fly ; 
For now the storm of summer rain is o'er, 
And cool, and fresh, and fragrant is the sky. 
And, lo ! in the dark East, expanded high, 
The i-ainbow brightens to the setting sun ! 
Fond fool, that deem'st the streaming glory nigh ; 
How vain the chase thine ardour has begun ! 
'Tis fled afar, ere half thy purpos'd race be run. 

When the long-sounding curfew from afar 
Loaded with loud lament the lonely gale, 
Young Edwin, lighted by the evening star. 
Lingering and listening, wander'd down the vale. 
There would he dream of graves and corses pale, 
And ghosts that to the chamel-dungeon throng, 
And drag a length of clanking chain, and wail, 
Till silenc'd by the owFs terrific song. 
Or blast tliat shrieks by fits the shuddering aisles along. 

Or, when the setting moon, in crimson dyed, 
Hung o'er the dark and melancholy deep. 
To haunted streams, remote from man, he hied, 
Where fays of yore their revels wont to keep ; 
And there let Fancy rove at large, till sleep 
A vision brought to his entranced sight. 
And first, a wildly murmuring wind 'gan creep 
Shrill to his ringing ear ; then tapers bright. 
With instantaneous gleam, illum'd the vault of night. 

Anon in view a portal's blazon'd arch 
Arose ; the trumpet bids the valves unfold ; 
And forth an host of little warriors march, 
Grasping the diamond lance and targe of gold. 
Their look was gentle, their demeanour bold. 
And gi'een their helms, and green their silk attire ; 
And here and there, riglit venerably old, 

3 



MORNING LANDSCAPE. 

The long-rob'd minstrels wake the warbling wire, 
And some with mellow breath the martial pipe inspire. 

With merriment, and song, and timbrels clear, 
A troop of dames from m}a'tle bowers advance ; 
The little warriors doff the targe and spear. 
And loud enlivening strains provoke the dance. 
They meet, they dart away, they wheel askance ; 
To right, to left, they thrid the flying maze ; 
Now bound aloft with vigorous spring, then glance 
Rapid along : with many-colour'd vajs 
Of tapers, gems, and gold, the echoing forests blaze. 



MORNING LANDSCAPE. 



But who the melodies of morn can tell? 
The wild brook babbling down the mountain side ; 
Tlie lowing herd ; the sheepf old's simple bell ; 
The pipe of early shepherd dim descried 
In the lone valley ; echoing far and Avide, 
The clamorous horn along the cliffs above ; 
The hollow murmur of the ocean tide; 
The hum of bees, the 'linnet's lay of love, 
And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. 

The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark ; 
Crown'd with her pail, the tripping milkmaid sings : 
The whistling ploughman stalks afield ; and, hark ! 
Down the rough slope the ponderous waggon rings ; 
Through rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs ; 
4 



BEATTIE. 

Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour ; 

The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; 

Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower, 

^Vnd shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tower. 



CALM AND STORM. 



Oft when the winter storm had ceas'd to rave, 
He roam'd the snowy waste at even, to \iew 
The cloud stupendous, from th' Atlantic wave 
High towering, sail along th' horizon blue : 
Where, 'midst the changeful scenery ever new. 
Fancy a thousand wondrous forms descries, 
More wildly great than ever pencil drew — 
Hocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of giant size. 
And glitt'ring cliffs on cliffs, and ffery ramparts rise. 

Thence musing ouM^ard to the sounding shore. 
The lone enthusiast oft would take his Avay, 
Listening, with pleasing dread, to the deep roar 
Of the wide-weltering waves.. 'In black array 
When sulphurous clouds roll'd on th' autumnal day ; 
E'en then he hasten' d from the haunt of man, 
Along the trembling wilderness to stray. 
What time the lightning's fierce career began, 
And o'er heaven's rending arch the rattling thunder ran. 




A YALLEY AMONG THE HILLS. 



Thither he hi^d, enamour' d of the scene ; 
For rocks on. ^ )cks pilkl, as by magic spell. 
Here scorch'd with lightning, there with ivy green, 
Fenc'd from the north and east this savage dell. 
Southward a mountain rose with easy swell, 
Wliose long, long groves eternal murmur made : 
And toward the western sun a streamlet fell, 
Where, through the cliffs, the eye remote survey'd 
Blue hills, and glittering waves, and skies in gold array'd. 

6 



BEATTIE. 

Along this narrow valley you might see 
The wild deer sporting on the level ground, 
And, here and there, a solitary tree, 
Or mossy stone, or rock with woodbine cro^vn'd. 
Oft did the cliiFs reverberate the sound 
Of parted fragments tumbling from on high ; 
And from the summit of that craggy mound 
The piercing eagle oft Avas heard to cry. 
Or, on resoundmg wings, to shoot athAvart the sky. 

One cultivated spot there was, that spread 
Its flowery bosom to the noonday beam, 
Where many a rosebud rears its blushing head, 
And herbs for food with future plenty teem. 
Sooth'd by the lulling sound of grove and stream, 
Romantic visions swarm on Edwin's soul : 
He minded not the sun's last trembling gleam, 
Nor heard from far the twilight curfew toll ; 
WTien slowly on his ear these moving accents stole: 

"Hail, awful scenes, that calm the troubled breast. 
And woo the weary to profound repose ! 
Can passion's wildest uproar lay to rest. 
And whisper comfort to the man of Avoes? 
Here Innocence may wander, safe from foes, 
And Contemplation soar on seraph wings. 
O Solitude ! the man who thee foregoes. 
When lucre lures him, or ambition stings, 

Shall never know the source whence real gifandeur springs." 




RETIREMENT. 



"When in the crimson cloud of even, 

The lingering light decays, 
And Hesper on the front of heaven 

His glittering gem displays ; 
Deep in the silent vale, unseen, 

Beside a lulling stream, 
A pensive youth, of placid mien, 

Indule'd this tender theme : 



Ye cliffs, in li*aj'y grandeur pil'd. 

High d'er the glimmering dale ; 
Ye woods, along whose windings wild 

Murmurs the solemn gale : 
Where Melancholy strays forlorn. 

And Woe retires to weep. 
What time the wan moon's yellow horn 

Gleams on the western deep : 



BEATTIE. 

To you, ye wastes, whose artless charms 

Ne'er drew Ambition's eye, 
Scap'cl a tumultuous world's alarms, 

To your retreats I fly. 
Deep in your most sequester'd bower 

Let me at last recline. 
Where Solitude, mUd, modest Power, 

Leans on her ivied shrine. 



"How shall I Avoo thee, matchless Fair? 

Thy heavenly smile " how win ? 
Thy smUe that smooths the brow of Care, 

And stills the storm within? 
0, wilt thou to thy favourite grove 

Thine ardent votary bring, 
And bless his hours, and bid them move 

Serene, on silent wing? 



" Oft let Remembrance sooth his mind 

With dreams of former days. 
When, in the lap of Peace reclin'd, 

He fram'd his infant lays ; 
Wlien Fancy rov'd at large, nor Care 

Nor cold Distrust alarm' d. 
Nor Envy Avith malignant glare 

His simple youth had harm'd. 

"'Twas then, O Solitude! t<* thee 
His early vows were paid, 
From heart sincere, and warm, and free 

Devoted to the shade. 
Ah! why did Fate his steps decoy 

In stormy paths to roam. 
Remote from all congenial joy? — 
O, take the Wanderer home! 
9 



RETIREMENT. 

"Thy shades, thy silence, now be mine. 

Thy charms my only theme; 
My haunt the hollow cliff, whose pine 

Waves o'er the gloomy stream; — 
Whence the scar'd owl on pinions gray 

Breaks from the rustling boughs. 
And down the lone vale sails aAvay 

To more profound repose. 

'• 0, whUe to thee the woodland pours 

Its wildly warbling song. 
And balmy, from the bank of flowers. 

The zephyr breathes along; 
Let no rude sound invade from far, 

No vagrant foot be nigh, 
No ray from Grandeur's gilded car 

Flash on the startled eye. 

"But if some pilgrim through the glade 

Thy hallow'd bowers exjilore, 
O guard from harm his hoary head. 

And listen to his lore ; 
For he of joys divine shall tell, 

That wean from earthly woe, 
And triumph o'er the mighty spell 

That chains his heart below. 

" For me, no more the path invites 
Ambition loves to tread ; 
No more I climb those toilsome heights, 

By guileful Hope misled: 
Leaps my fond fluttering heart no more 

To Mirth's enlivening strain ; 
For present pleasure soon is o'er. 
And all the past is vain." 
10 




COWPER. 

YARDLEY OAK. 

Survivor sole, and hardly such, of all 
That once liv'd here, thy brethren, at my birth, 
11 



YARDLEY OiVI^:. 

(Since which I number threescore Avinters past,) 
A shatter'd vet'ran, hollow-trunk'd perhaps, 
As now, and with excoriate forks deform. 
Relics of ages ! could a mind, imbued 
With truth from Heaven, created thing adore, 
I might with reverence kneel, and worship thee. 

It seems idolatiy Avith some excuse. 
When our foi'efather Druids in their oaks 
Imagin'd sanctity. The conscience, yet 
Unpurified by an authentic act 
Of amnesty, the meed of blood divine, 
Lov'd not the light, but, gloomy, into gloom 
Of thickest shades, like Adam after taste 
Of fruit proscribed, as to a refuge, fled. 

Thou wast a bauble once — a cup and ball. 
Which babes might play A\ith ; and the thievish jay. 
Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin' d 
The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing doAvn 
Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs 
And all thine embryo vastness at a gulp. 
But Fate thy growth decreed ; autumnal rains 
Beneath thy parent tree mellow'd the soil 
Design'd thy cradle ; and a skipping deer. 
With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, jirepar d 
The soft receptacle, in which, secure, 
Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through. 

So Fancy dreams. Disprove it, if ye can. 
Ye reas'ners broad awake, Avhose busy search 
Of argument, employ' d too oft amiss. 
Sifts half the pleasures of short life away ! 

Thou fell'st mature ; and in the loamy clod, 
Swelling with vegetative force instinct. 
Did burst thine egg, as theirs the fabled Twins, 

12 



COWPER. 

Now stars ; two lobes, protruding, pair'd exact ; 
A leaf succeeded, and another leaf. 
And, all the elements thy puny growth 
Fost'ring propitious, thou becam'st a twig. 

Who liv'd, when thou wast such? O could'st thou Sjioak, 
As in Dodona once thy kindred trees 
Oracular, I would not curious ask 
The future, best unknown, but at thy mouth, 
Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past. 

By thee I might correct, erroneous oft, 
The clock of history, facts and events 
Timing more punctual, unrecorded facts 
Eecovering, and misstated setting right, — 
Desp'rate attempt, till trees shall speak again! 

Time made thee what thou wast, king of the Avoods ; 
And Time hath made thee what thou art — a cave 
For owls to roost in. Once thy spreading boughs 
O'erhung the champaign ; and the num'rous flocks 
That graz'd it stood beneath that ample cope 
Uncrowded, yet safe-shclter'd from the storm. 
No flock frequents thee now. Thou hast outliv'd 
Thy popularity, and art become 
(Unless verse rescue thee awhile) a thing 
Forgotten, as the foliage of thy youth. 

"Wliile thus through all the stages thou hast pushM 
Of treeship — first a seedling, hid in grass ; 
Then twig ; then sapling ; and, as cent'ry rollM 
Slbw after century, a giant-bulk 
Of girth enormous, with moss-cushion'd root 
Upheav'd above the soil, and sides emboss'd 
With prominent wens globose — till at the last 
The rottenness, which Time is charged t' inflict 
On other mighty ones, found also thee. 

13 



YARDLEY OAK. 

What exhibitions various hatli the world 
Witness'd of mutability, in all 
That we account most durable below ! 
Change is the diet on which all subsist, 
Created changeable, and change at last 
Destroys them. Skies uncertain now the heat 
Transmitting cloudless, and the solar beam 
Now quenching in a boundless sea of clouds — 
Calm and alternate storm, moisture and drought, 
Invigorate by turns the springs of life 
In all that live, plant, animal, and man. 
And m conclusion mar them. Nature's threads. 
Fine passing thought e'en in her coarsest works, 
Delight in agitation, yet sustain 
The force that agitates, not unimpaii-'d ; 
But, worn by frequent impulse, to the cause 
Of their best tone their dissolution owe. , 

Thought cannot spend itself, comparing still 
The great and little of thy lot, tliy growth 
From almost nullity into a state 
Of matchless grandeur, and declension thence, 
Slow, into such magnificent decay. 
Time was, when, settling on thy leaf, a fly 
Could shake thee to thy root — and time has been 
When tempests could not. At thy firmest age 
Thou hadst within thy bole solid contents, 
That might have ribb'd the sides and plank'd the deck 
Of some flagg'd admiral ; and tortuous arms, 
The shipwright's darling treasure, didst present 
To the four-quarter'd winds, robust and bold, 
Warp'd into tough knee-timber, many a load! 
But the axe spar'd thee. In those thriftier days 
Oaks fell not, hewn by thousands to supply 
The bottomless demands of contest, wag'd 
For senatorial honours. Thus to Time 
The task was left to whittle thee away 

14 



COWPER. 

With his sly scythe, whose ever-nibbling edge 
Noiseless, an atom, and an atom more, 
Disjoining from the rest, has, unobserv'd, 
Achiev'd a labour which had far and wide. 
By man perform'd, made all the forest rhig. 

Embowell'd now, and of thy ancient self 
Possessing nought but the scoop'd rind, that seems 
A huge throat calling to the clouds for drink, 
Which it would give in rivulets to thy root, 
Thou temptest none, but rather much forbidd'st 
The feller's toil, which thou could' st ill requite. 
Yet is thy root sincere, sound as the rock, 
A quarry of stout spurs and knotted fangs, 
Which, crook'd into a thousand whimsies, clasp 
The stubborn soil, and hold thee still erect. 

So stands a kingdom whose foundation yet 
Fails not, in virtue and in Avisdom laid. 
Though all the superstructure, by the tooth 
Pulverized of venality, a shell 
Stands now, and semblance only of itself! 



Thine arms have left thee. Winds have rent them off 
Long since, and rovers of the forest wild, 
With bow and shaft, have burnt them. Some have left 
A splinter'd stump, bleach'd to a snowy Avhite ; 
And some, memorial none where once they grew. 
But life stUl lingers in thee, and puts forth 
Proof not contemptible of what she can. 
Even where death predominates. The Spring 
Finds thee not less alive to her SAveet force 
Than yonder upstarts of the neighb'ring wood. 
So much thy juniors, who their birth received 
Half a millennium since the date of thine. 

15 



YARDLEY OAK. 

But since, although well qualified by age 
To teach, no spirit dwells in thee, nor voice 
May be expected from thee, seated here 
On thy distorted root, with hearers none, 
Or prompter, save the scene, I will perform 
Myself the oracle, and avUI discourse 
In my own ear such matter as I may. 

One man alone, the father of us all. 
Drew not his life from woman ; never gaz'd, 
With mute unconsciousness of what he saw, 
On all around him ; leai'n'd not by degrees. 
Nor ow'd articulation to his ear ; 
But, moulded by his Maker into man, 
At once upstood intelligent, survey'd 
All creatures, with precision understood 
Their purport, uses, properties, assign'd 
To each his name significant, and, fill'd 
"With love and Avisdom, render'd back to Pleav'n 
In praise harmonious the first air he drew. 
He was excus'd the penalties of dull 
Minority : no tutor charg'd his hand 
With the thought-tracing quill, or task'd his mind 
With problems. History, not wanted yet, 
Lean'd on her elbow, watching Time, whose course, 
Eventful, should supply her with a theme. 



If. 




LINES TO MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. 



THAT tliose lips had language ! Life has pass'd 
With me but roughly since I heard thee last. 
Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I see, 
The same that oft m childhood solac'd me ; 
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 
" Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away I" 

17 



LINES TO MY MOTHER'S PICTUEE. 

The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
(Blest be the art that can immortalize, 
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim 
To quench it,) here shines on me still the same. 
Faithful remembrancer of one so clear, 

welcome guest, though unexpected here ! 
"Who bidst me honour with an artless song. 
Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 

1 will obey, not willingly alone. 

But gladly, as the precept were her ovm ; 
And, Avhile that face renews my filial grief. 
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, 
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, 
A momentary dream that thou art she. 

My mother ! when I learn'd that thou wast dead. 
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? 
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, 
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? 
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss ; 
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — 
Ah, that maternal smile ! — it answers — Yes. 
I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, 
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, 
And, turning from my nursery window, drew 
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 
But was it such ? It was. — ^Where thou art gone, 
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore. 
The parting words shall pass my lips no more ! 
Thy maidens, griev'd themselves at my concern, 
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return ; 
Wliat ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd. 
And, disappointed still, was still deceiv'd ; 
By expectation every day beguil'd. 
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and Avenl. 
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, 

18 



COWrEK. 

I learn' d at last submission to my lot, 

But, though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot. 

Wliere once we dwelt our name is heard no more, 
Children not thine have trod my nurs'ry floor ; 
And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day, 
Drew me to school along the public way. 
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd 
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capp'd, 
'Tis now become a history little known. 
That once we call'd the pastoral house our 0A\n. 
Short-liv'd possession ! but the record fair. 
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there. 
Still outlives many a storm, that has effac'd 
A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd. 
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, 
That thou mightst know me safe and Avarmly laid ; — 
All this, and, more endearing still than all, 
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall. 
Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks. 
That humour interpos'd too often makes ; 
All this stUl legible in memory's page, 
And still to be so to my latest age, 
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
Such honours to thee as my numbers may; 
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere. 
Not scorn'd in heaven, though little notic'd here. 

Could Time, his flight revers'd, restore the hour;-, 
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, 
The violet, the pink, and jessamine, 
1 prick'd them into paper with a pin, 
(And thou wast happier than myself the while, 
Would' st softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile,) 
Could those few pleasant days again appear, 
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them hci-e ? 
I would not trust my heart; — the dear delight 
Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I might. — 
But no — what here we call our life is such, 

19 



LINES TO MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. 

So little to be lov'd, and thou 80 much, 
That I should ill requite thee to constrain 
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast 
(The storms all weather' d, and the ocean cross' d) 
Shoots into port at some -well-haveu'd isle. 
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, 
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show 
Her beauteous form reflected clear below, 
While airs impregnated with incense play 
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay ; 
So thou, Avith sails how swift ! hast reach'd the shore. 
" Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar ;" 
And thy lov'd consort, on the dangerous tide 
Of life, long since has anchor'd by thy side. 
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest. 
Always fi*om port withheld, always distress'd, — 
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd. 
Sails ripp'd, seams op'ning wide, and comjiass lost, 
And day by day some current's thwarting force 
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. 
Yet O the thought, that thou art safe, and he ! 
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 
My boast is not that I deduce my birth 
From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the earth ; 
But higher far my proud pretensions rise, — 
The son of parents pass'd into the skies. 
And now, farewell ! — Time unrevok'd has run 
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. 
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, 
I seem t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again ; 
To have renew' d the joys that once were mine 
Without the sin of violating thine ; 
And while the wings of Fancy still are free. 
And I can view this mimic show of thee. 
Time has but half succeeded in his theft — 
Thyself remov'd, thy pow'r to soothe me left. 

20 




HAYLEY. 



THE VISION OF SERENA. 



'' Well may'st thou bend o'er this congenial sphere ; 
For Sensibility is Sovereign here. 
Thou seest her train of sprightly damsels sport, 
"NVliere the soft spirit holds her rural court ; 
But fix thine eye attentive to the plain, 
And mark the varying wonders of her reign." 
As thus she spoke, she pois'd her airy seat 
High o'er a plain exhaling every sweet ; 
For round its precincts all the flowers that bloom 
Fill'd the delicious air with rich perfume ; 
And in the midst a verdant throne aj^pear'd, 

21 



THE VISION OF SERENA. 

Ill simplest form by graceful fancy rear'd, 

And deck'd with flowers ; not such whose flaunting dyee 

Strike with the strongest tint our dazzl'd eyes ; 

But those wild herbs that tend'rest fibres bear, 

And shun th' approaches of a damper air. 

Here stood the lovely ruler of the scene, 

And beauty, more than pomp, announc'd The Queen. 

The bending snowdrop and the briar-rose, 

The simple circle of her crown compose ; 

Roses of every hue her robe adorn. 

Except th' insipid rose without a thorn. 

Of that enchanting age her figure seems. 

When smiling nature Avith the vital beams 

Of vivid youth, and Pleasure's purple flame. 

Gilds her accomplish'd work, the female frame. 

With rich luxuriance tender, sweetly wild, 

And just between the woman and the child. 

Her fair left arm around a vase she flings, 

From which the tender plant mimosa springs ;' 

Towards its leaves, o'er which she fondly bends, 

The youthful fair her vacant hand extends 

With gentle motion, anxious to survey 

How far the feeling fibres own her sway; 

The leaves, as conscious of their Queen's command. 

Successive fall at her approaching hand ; 

While her soft breast with pity seems to pant, 

And shrinks at every shrinking of the plant. 

Around their sovereign, on the verdant ground, 
Sweet airy forms in mystic measures bound. 
Unnumber'd damsels different charms display. 
Pensive with bliss, or in their pleasures gay. 
But, the bright triumphs of their joy to check, 
In the clear air there hangs a dusky speck ; 
It swells — it spreads — and rapid, as it grows, 
O'er the gay scene a chilling shadow throws. 
The soft Serena, who beheld its flight, 
• Suspects no evil from a cloud so light ; 



HAYLEY. 

15ut, ah ! too soon, with pity's tender pain, 
She saw its dire eiFect o'er all the plain : 
Sudden from thence the sounds of anguish flow, 
And joy's sweet carols end in shrieks of woe. 
Here gloomy Terror, with a shado^vy rope, 
Seems, like a Turkish mute, to strangle Hope. 
But pangs more cruel, more intensely keen, 
Wound and distract their sympathetic Queen. 
With fruitless tears she o'er their misery bends ; 
From her sweet brow the thorny rose she rends, 
And, bow'd by griefs insufferable weight, 
Frantic she curses her immortal state : 
The soft Serena, as this curse she hears, 
Feels her bright eye suffus'd with kindred tears. 

The guardian Power survey'd her lovely grief, 
And spoke in gentle terms of mild relief: 
"For this soft tribe they heaviest fear dismiss, 
And know their pains are transient as their bliss: 
Eapture and agony, in Nature's loom. 
Have form'd the changing tissue of their doom; 
Both interwoven with so nice an art. 
No power can tear the twisted threads apart ; 
Yet happier these, to Nature's heart more dear, 
Than the dull offspring in the torpid sphere, 
AVhere her warm wishes, and affections kind. 
Lose their bright current in the stagnant mind. 
Here grief and joy so suddenly unite. 
That anguish serves to sublimate delight." 

She spoke ; and, ere Serena could reply, 
The vapour vanish'd from the lucid sky. 
The nymphs revive, the shadowy fiends are fled, 
The new-born flowers a richer fragrance shed, — 
While on the lovely Queen's enchanting face, 
Departed sorrow's faint and fainter trace 
Gave to each touching charm a more attractive grace. 




HURDIS. 

RURAL SOUNDS. 

Be nothing heard, 
Save the far-distant murmur of the deep 
24 



HURDIS. 

Or the near grasshopper's incessant note, 
That snug beneath the wall in comfort sits. 
And chu'ping imitates the silvery chink 
Of wages told into the ploughman's palm — 
Or gentle curlew bidding kind good night 
To the spent villager, or ere his hand 
The cottage taper quench — or grazing ox 
His dewy supper from the savoury herb 
Audibly gathering — or cheerful hind 
From the lov'd harvest feast returning home, 
Whistling at intervals some rustic air. 

Such rural sounds, 
If haply notic'd by the musing mind, 
Sweet interruption yield, and thrice improve 
The solemn luxury of idle thouglit. 
If not abroad I sit, but sip at home 
The cheering beverage of fading eve. 
By some fair hand, or ere it reach the lip. 
With mingled flavour tinctur'd of the cane 
And Asiatic leaf, let the mute flock. 
As from the wdndow studious looks mine eye, 
Steal fold- ward nibbling o'er the shadowy down — 
Let the reluctant milch-kine of the farm 
Wend slowly from the pasture to the pail. 
Let the glad ox, unyok'd, make haste to field, 
And the stout wain-horse, of encumbrance stript. 
Shake his enormous limbs with blund'ring speed. 
Eager to gratify his famish'd lip 
With taste of herbage and the meadow-brook. 



25 




CHARLOTTE SMITH. 



THE SWALLOW. 



The gorse is yellow on the heath, 

The banks with speedwell flowers are gay, 
The oaks are budding; and beneath, 
The haAvthorn soon will bear the Avi-eath, 
The silver wreath of May. 
26 



CHAELOTTE SMITH. 

The welcome guest of settled Spring, 
The Swallow, too, is come at last; 
Just at sunset, when thrushes sing, 
I saw her dash with rapid wing, 
And haU'd her as she pass'd. 

Come, summer visitant, attach 

To my reed-roof your nest of clay, 
And let my ear your music catch. 
Low twittermg underneath the thatch, 
At the grey dawn of day. 

As fables tell, an Indian Sage, 

The Hindustani woods among. 
Could in his desert hermitage, 
As if 'twere mark'd in written page. 

Translate the wild bird's song. 

I wish I did his power possess. 

That I might learn, fleet bird, from thee. 
What our vain systems only guess. 
And know from what wild wilderness 

You came across the sea. 

I would a little while restrain 

Your rapid wing, that I might hear 
AVhether on clouds that bring the rain, 
You sail'd above the western main, 
The wind your charioteer. 

In Afric, docs the sultry gale, 

Through spicy bower, and palmy grove. 
Bear the repeated Cuckoo's tale? 
Dwells there a time, the wandering Rail, 

Or the itinerant Dove? 
27 



THE SWALLO^^^ 

Were you in Asia? relate, 
If there your fabled sister's woes 

She seem'd in sorrow to narrate ; 

Or sings she but to celebrate 
Her nuptials with the rose? 

1 would inquire how, journeying long 
The vast and pathless ocean o'er, 

You ply again those pinions strong, 

And come to build anew among 
The scenes you left before ; 

But if, as cooler breezes blow, 

Prophetic of the waning year. 
You hide, though none know when or how. 
In the cliff's excavated brow, 

And linger torpid here ; 

Thus lost to life, what favouring dream 

Bids you to happier hours awake ; 
And tells, that dancing in the beam, 
The light gnat hovers o'er the stream. 
The May-fly on the lake? 

Or if, by instinct taught to know 

Approaching dearth of insect food, 
To isles and willowy aits you go. 
And crowding on the pliant bough. 
Sink in the dimpling flood: 

How learn ye, while the cold waves boom 

Y^'our deep and oosy couch above, 
The time when flowers of promise bloom. 
And call you from your transient tomb. 
To light, and life, and love ? 
28 



CHARLOTTE SMITH. 

Alas ! how little can be known, 

Her sacred veil where Nature draw? ; 
Let baffled Science humbly own, 
Her mysteries understood alone 
By Him who gives her laws. 



SONNET WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF SPRINfx. 



The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove, 

Each simple flower, which she had nurs'd in dew. 
Anemones, that spangled every grove. 

The primrose wan, and harebell mildly blue. 
No more shall violets linger in the dell. 

Or purple orchis variegate the plain, 
'lill Spring again shall call forth every bell, 

And dress with humid hands her Avi'eath? again. 

Ah, poor humanity! so frail, so fair. 
Are the fond visions of thy early day, 

Till tyrant passion, and corrosive care, 
Bid all thy fairy colours fade away! 

Another May new buds and flowers shall bring : 
Ah! why has liappiness no second spring? 



29 



SONNETS. 



SONNET. 



Should the lone wanderer, fainting on liis way, 

Eest for a moment of the sultry hours. 
And, though his path through thorns and roughness lay, 

Pluck the wild rose or woodbine's gadding flowers, 
AVearing gay wreaths beneath some sheltering tree, 

The sense of sorrow he awhile may lose ; 
So have I sought thy flowers, fair Poesy! 

So charm'd my Avay with Friendship and the Muse. 

But darker now grows life's unhappy day, 
Dark with new clouds of evil yet to come, 

-Her pencil, sickening, Fancy tlirows away, 
And weary Hope reclines upon the tomb, 

And points my wishes to that tranquil shore, 

"SAliere the pale spectre Care pursues no more. 



SONNET ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE NIGHTINGALE. 

Saveet poet of the woods, a long adieu! 

Farewell, soft minstrel of the early year! 
Ah ! 'twill be long ere thou shalt sing anew. 

And pour thy music on the night's dull ear. 
Whether on Spring thy wandering flights await. 

Or whether silent in our groves you dwell. 
The pensive Muse shall own thee for her mate. 

And still protect the song she loves so well. 

With cautious step the love-lorn youth shall glide 
Thro' the lone brake that shades thy mossy nest ; 

And shepherd-girls from eyes profane shall hide 
The gentle bird, Avho sings of pity best: 

For still thy voice shall soft atfections move, 
And still be dear to sorrow, and to love ! 
30 





FROM " BEACHY HEAD.'" 



I ONCE was happy, when, wliile yet a child 
I learn'd to love these upland solitude?. 
And when, elastic as the mountain air. 
To my light spii'it care was yet unknown. 
And evil unforeseen : — early it came, 
31 



FROM "BEACHY HEAD." 

And cliildliood scarcely past, I was condeum'd, 

A guiltless exile, silently to sigh, 

Wliile Memory, "vvith faithful pencil, drew 

The contrast ; and regretting, I conipar'd 

With the polluted smoky atmosphere 

And dark and stifling streets, the southern hills, 

That, to the setting sun their graceful heads 

Rearing, o'erlook the frith, Avhere Vecta breaks 

With her white rocks the strong impetuous tide, 

AVlien western winds the vast Atlantic urge 

To thunder on the coast. Haunts of my youth ! 

Scenes of fond day-dreams, I behold ye yet ! 

Where 'twas so pleasant by thy northern slopes 

To climb the winding sheep-path, aided oft 

By scatter'd thorns ; whose spring branches bore 

Small woolly tufts, spoils of the vagrant lamb 

There seeking shelter from the noonday sun : 

And pleasant, seated on the short soft turf. 

To look beneath upon the hollow way 

While heavily upward mov'd the labouring wain, 

And stalking slowly by, the sturdy hind. 

To ease his panting team, stopp'd Avith a stone 

The grating wheel. 

Advancing higher stUl, 
The prospect widens, and the village church 
But little, o'er the lowly roofs around, 
Rears its grey belfry, and its simple vane ; 
Those lowly roofs of thatch are half conceal' d 
By the rude arms of trees, lovely in Spring, 
Wlien on each bough the rosy tinctur'd bloom 
Sits thick, and promises autumnal plenty. 
For even those orchards round the Norman farms, 
Which, as their owners mark the promis'd fruit. 
Console them for the vineyards of the South, 
Surpass not these. 

Where woods of ash, and beech, 
And partial copses, fiinge the green hill foot, 
32 



CHARLOTTE SMITH 

The upland, shepherd rears his modest home ; 

There wanders by a little nameless stream 

That from the hill wells forth, bright no"\\' and cleai". 

Or after rain with chalky mixture grey, 

l>iit still refreshing: in its shallow course 




'Jlie cottage garden ; most for use design'd, 
Yet not of beauty destitute. The vine 
Mantles the little casement ; yet the briar 
Drops fragrant dew among the July flowers ; 
And pansies ray'd, and freak'd and mottled pinks 

33 c 



FROM "BEACHY HEAD." 

Grow among balm, and rosemary and rue ; 

There honeysuckles flaunt, and roses blow 

Almost uncultur'd: some with dark green leaves 

Contrast their flowers of pure unsullied white ; 

Others like velvet robes of regal state 

Of richest crimson ; while, in thorny moss 

Enshrin'd and cradled, the most lovely wear 

The hues of youtliful beauty's glowing cheek. — 

With fond regret I recollect e'en now 

In Spring and Summer what delight I felt 

Among these cottage gardens, and how much 

Such artless nosegays, knotted Avith a rush 

By village housewife or her ruddy maid. 

Were welcome to me ; soon and simply pleas' d, 

An early worshipper at Nature's shrine, 

I lov'd her rudest scenes — warrens, and heaths, 

And yellow commons, and birch-shaded hollows, 

And hedgerows, bordering unfrequented lanes 

Bower'd with wild roses, and the clasping woodbine. 

Where purple tassels of the tangling vetch 

With bittersweet and bryony inweave. 

And the dew fills the silver bindweed's cups- — 

I lov'd to trace the brooks whose humid banks 

Nourish the harebell, and the freckled pagU ; 

And stroll among o'ershadowing Avoods of beech, 

Lending in Summer from the heats of noon 

A Avir^pering shade ; whUe haply there reclines 

Some pensive lover of uncultur'd flowers. 

Who from the tumps, Avith bright green mosses clad, 

Plucks the Avood sorrel with its light thin leaves, 

Heart-shap'd, and triply-folded, and its root 

Creeping like beaded coral ; or who there 

Gathers, the copse's pride, anemones. 

With rays like golden studs on ivory laid 

Most delicate : but touch'd Avith purple clouds. 

Fit crown for April's fair but changeful broAA'. 



34 



ANNA SEWARD. 



SONG. 



From thy waves, stormy Lannow, I fly; 
From the rocks, that are lash'd by their tide ; 
From the maid, whose cold bosom, relentless as they, 
Has -wreck'd my warm hopes by her pride ! — 
Yet lonely and rude as the scene. 
Her smile to that scene could impart 
A charm, that might rival the bloom of the vale — 
But away, thou fond dream of my heart! 
From thy rocks, stormy Lannow, I fly! 

Now the blasts of the winter come on. 

And the Avaters grow dark as they rise ! 

But 'tis well ! they resemble the sullen disdain 

That has lour'd in those insolent eyes. 

Sincere were the sighs they represt. 

But they rose in the days that are flown ! 

Ah, nymph! unrelenting and cold as thou art, 

My spirit is proud as thine own. 

From thy rocks, stormy Lannow, I fly! 

Lo! the wings of the sea-fowl are spread 
To escape the loud storm by their flight ; 
And these caves will afford them a gloomy retreat 
From the winds and the billows of night ; 
Like them, to the home of my youth, 
Like them, to its shades I retire ; 
Receive me, and shield my vex'd spirit, ye groves, 
From the pangs of insulted desire ! 
To thy rocks, stormy Lannow, adieu ! 
3.5 



DARWIN. 

MARCH OF CAMBYSES. 

When Heaven's dread justice smites in crimes o'ergrowii 

The blood-nurs'd tyrant on his purple throne, 

Gnomes ! your bokl forms unnumber'd arms outstretch. 

And urge the vengeance o'er the guilty Avretch. 

Thus when Cambyses led his barbarous hosts 

From Persia's rocks to Egypt's tremblhig coasts, 

Defiled each hallow'd fane, and sacred wood, 

And, drunk with fury, swell'd the Nile with blood : 

Wav'd his proud banner o'er the Theban states, 

And pour'd destruction through her hundred gates ; 

In dread divisions march'd the marshall'd bands, 

And swarming armies blacken'd all the lands. 

By Memphis these to Ethiop's sultry plains. 

And those to Ammon's sand-encircled fanes. 

Slow as they pass'd the indignant temples frown'd. 

Low curses muttering from the vaulted ground ; 

Long aisles of cypress wav'd their deepen'd glooms, 

And quivering spectres grinn'd amid the tombs ; 

Prophetic whispers breath'd from Sphinx's tongue, 

And Memnon's lyre with hollow murmurs rung ; 

Burst from each pyramid expiring groans, 

And darker shadows stretch'd their lengthen'd cones, 

Day after day their dreadful rout they steer. 

Lust in the van, and rapine in the rear. 

Gnomes ! as they march'd, you hid the gather'd fruits, 
The bladed grass, sweet grains, and mealy roots ; 
Scar'd the tired quails, that journey o'er their heads, 
Retain'd the locusts in their earthy beds ; 
Bade on your sands no night-born dews distil, 
Stay'd with vindictive hands the scanty rill. 
Loud o'er the camp the fiend of Famine shrieks. 
Calls all her brood, and champs her hundred beaks; 

36 



DARWIN. 

O'er ten square leagues her pennons broad expand, 
And tAvilight swims upon the shuddering sand ; 
Perch'd on her crest the griffin Discord clings. 
And giant Murder rides between her Avings ; 
Blood from each clotted hair, and horny quill. 
And showers of tears in blended streams distil ; 
High pois'd in air her spiry neck she bends, 
Rolls her keen eye, her dragon-claws extends, 
Darts from above, and tears at each fell swoop 
With iron fangs the decimated troop. 

Now o'er their head the whizzing Avhirlwinds breathe, 

And the live desert pants, and heaves beneath ; 

Tinged by the crimson sun, vast columns rise 

Of eddying sands, and war amid the skies. 

In red arcades the billoA\y plain surround, 

And whirling turrets stalk along the ground. 

— Long ranks in vain their shining blades extend, 

To demon-gods their knees unhallow'd bend. — 

Wheel in wide circle, form in hollow square. 

And now they front, and now they fly the war, 

Pierce the deaf tempest with lamenting cries. 

Press their parch'd lips, and close their bloodshot eyes. 

— Gnomes ! o'er the waste you led your myriad powers, 

Climb'd on the whirls, and aim'd the flinty showers ! 

Onward resistless rolls the infuriate surge. 

Clouds follow clouds, and mountains mountains urge ; 

Wave over wave the driving desert swims, 

Bursts o'er their heads, inhumes theu* struggling limbs ; 

Man mounts on man, on camels camels rush. 

Hosts march o'er hosts, and nations nations crush, — 

Wheeling in air the winged islands fall. 

And one great earthy ocean covers all! — 

Then ceased the storm, — Night bow'd his Ethiop brow 

To earth, and listen'd to the groans below, — 

Grim Horror shook, — awhile the living hUl 

Heaved with convulsive throes, — and all was still ! 



ANTIQUE GEMS. 
THREE IMPRESSIONS OF ANTIQUE GEMS. 

THE EAGLE. 

So, when with bristling plumes the bird of Jove 
Vindictive leaves the argent fields above, 
Borne on broad wings the guilty world he awes. 
And grasps the lightning in his shining claws. 

THE CHILD SLEEPING. 

No voice so sweet attunes his cares to rest, 

So soft no pillow as his mother's breast ! — 

— Thus charm'd to sweet repose, when twilight hours 

Shed their soft influence on celestial bowers. 

The Cherub Innocence, with smile divine, 

Shuts his white Avings, and sleeps on Beauty's shrine. 

LOVE RIDING ON THE LION. 

So playful Love on Ida's flowery sides 
With ribbon-rein the indignant lion guides ; 
Pleased on his brindled back the lyre he rings, 
And shakes delirious rapture from the strings ; 
Slow as the pausing monarch stalks along, 
Sheaths his retractile claws, and drinks the song. 
Soft nymphs on timid step the triumph view, 
And listening fawns with beating hoofs pursue ; 
With pointed ears the alarmed forest starts, 
And love and music soften savage hearts. 



38 




TASTE. 

If the wide eye the wavy lawns explores, 
Tlie bending woodlands, or the winding shores, 
Hills, whose green sides with soft protuberance rise, 
Or the blue concave of the vaulted skies ; — 
Or scans with nicer gaze the pearly swell 
Of spii-al volutes round the twisted shell ; 
Or undulating sweep, wliose graceful turns 
Bound the smooth surface of Etrurian urns, 
When on fine forms tlie waving lines impress'd 
Give the nice curves, which swell the female breast 
The countless joys the tender mother pours 
Round the soft cradle of our infant hours. 
In lively trains of imextinct delight 
Rise in our bosoms recognised by sight ; 
Fond Fancy's eye recals the foi-m divine, 
And Taste sits smiling upon Beauty's shrine. 



Where Egypt's pyramids gigantic stand. 
And stretch their shadows o'er the shuddering' sand 
Or where high rocks, o'er ocean's dashing floods, 
Wave high in air their panoply of woods ; 
39 



TASTE. 

Admiring Taste delights to stray beneath 
With eye uplifted, and forgets to breathe ; 
Or, as aloft his daring footsteps climb, 
Crests their high summits mth his arm sublime. 

^Vliere mouldering columns mark the lingering wreck 

Of Thebes, Palmyra, Babylon, Balbec ; 

The prostrate obelisk, or shatter'd dome, 

Uprooted pedestal, and yawning tomb. 

On loitering steps reflective Taste surveys 

With folded arms and sympathetic gaze ; 

Charm'd with poetic Melancholy treads 

O'er ruin'd towns and desolated meads ; 

Or rides sublime on Time's expanded wings, 

And views the fate of ever-changing things. 

When Beauty's streaming eyes her woes express, 
Or Virtue braves unmerited distress ; 
Love sighs in sympathy, Avith pain combin'd, 
And new-born Pity charms the kindred mind ; 
The enamour'd Sorrow every cheek bedews, 
And Taste impassion'd woos the tragic Muse. 

The rush-thatch'd cottage on the purple moor, 
Where ruddy children frolic round the door, 
The moss-growni antlers of the aged oak, 
The shaggy locks that fringe the colt unbroke, 
The bearded goat with nimble eyes, that glare 
Through the long tissue of his hoary hair, 
As with quick foot he climbs some ruin'd Avail 
And crops the ivy, which prevents its fall ; 
With rural charms the tranquil mind delight, 
And form a picture to th' admiring sight. 
While Taste with pleasure bends his eye surpris'd 
In modern days at Nature unchastis'd. 



40 




-^ W-^J^\ 



CEOWE. 

LEWESDON HILL. 

IIoAv changed is thy appearance, beauteous Hill ! 
Thou hast put ofF thy wintry garb, brown heath 
And russet fern, thy seemly-colour'd cloak. 
To bide the hoary frosts and dripping rains 
41 



LEWESDON HILL. 

Of chill December, and art gaily robed 

In livery of the spring : upon thy brow 

A cap of flowery hawthorn, and thy neck 

Mantled with new-sprung furze and spangles thick 

Of golden bloom ; nor lack thee tufted woods 

Ado^\ai thy sides : tall oaks of lusty green, 

The darker fir, light ash, and the nesh tops 

Of the young hazel join, to form thy skirts 

In many a wavy fold of verdant wreath : 

So gorgeously hath Nature drest thee up 

Against the birth of May ; and, vested so, 

Thou dost appear more gracefully array'd 

Than fashion-mongering fops, whose gaudy shows. 

Fantastical as are a sick man's dreams. 

From vanity to costly vanity 

Change offer than the moon. Thy comely dress. 

From sad to gay returning Avith the year. 

Shall grace thee sfill till Nature's self shall change 

These are the beauties of thy woodland scene 
At each return of Spring : yet some delight 
Rather to view the change ; and fondly gaze 
On fading colours, and the thousand tints 
Which Autumn lays upon the varying leaf: 
I like them not, for all their boasted hues 
Are kin to sickliness ; mortal decay 
Is drinking up their vital juice ; that gone, 
They turn to sear and yellow. Should I praise 
Such false complexions, and for beauty take 
A look consumption-bred? As soon, if grey 
Were mixt in young Louisa's tresses brown, 
I'd call it beautiful variety. 
And therefore doat on her. Yet I can spy 
A beauty in that fruitful change, when comes 
The yellow Autumn, and the hopes o' the year 
Brings on to golden ripeness ; nor dispraise 
The pure and spotless form of that sharp time, 
42 



CROWE. 

When January spreads a pall of snow 

O'er the dead face of th' undistmguish'd earth. 

Then stand I in the hollow comb beneath, 

And bless this friendly mount, that weather-fends 

My reed-roof'd cottage, while the wintry blast 

From the thick North comes howling; till the Spring 

Eeturn, who leads my devious steps abroad, 

To climb, as now, to Lewesdon's airy top. 

From this proud eminence on all sides round 
Th' unbroken prospect opens to my view, 
On all sides large ; save only where the head 
Of Fillesdon rises, Pillesdon's lofty Pen : 
So call (still rendering to his ancient name 
Observance due) that rival Height south-west, 
Which, like a rampire, bounds the vale beneath. 
There woods, there blooming orchards, there are seen 
Herds ranging, or at rest beneath the shade 
Of some wide-branching oak ; there goodly fields 
Of corn, and verdant pasture, whence the kine. 
Returning with their milky treasure home, 
Store the rich dairy ; sucli fair plenty fills 
The pleasant vale of Marsliwood, pleasant now, 
Since that the Spring hath deck'd anew the meads 
With flowery vesture, and the warmer sun 
Their foggy moistness drain' d; in wintry days 
Cold, vapourish, miry, wet, and to the flocks 
Unfriendly, when autumnal rains begin 
To drench the spungy turf; but ere that time 
The careful shepherd moves to healthier soil, 
Rechasing, lest his tender ewes should coath 
In the dank pasturage. Yet not the fields 
Of Evesham, nor that ample valley named 
Of the White Horse, its antique monument 
Carved in the chalky bourne, for beauty and wealth 
Might equal, though surpassing in extent. 
This fertile vale, in length from Lewesdon's base 
43 



LEWESDON HILL. 

Extended to the sea, and water'd well 

By many a rill ; but chief with thy clear stream. 

Thou nameless Rivulet, who, from the side 

Of Lewesdon softly welling forth, dost trip 

Ado^vn the valley, wandering sportiA'cly. 




Alas ! how soon thy little course will end ! 
How soon thy infant stream shall lose itself 
In the salt mass of waters, ere it grow 
To name or greatness ! Yet it flows along 
Untainted with the commerce of the world. 
44 



CROWE. 

Nor passing by the noisy haunts of men ; 
But through sequester'cl meads, a little space, 
Winds secretly, and in its Avanton [)ath 
May cheer some drooping flower, or minister 
Of its cool water to the thirsty lamb : 
Then falls into the ravenous sea, as pure 
As Avhen it issued from its native hill. 

IIow is it vanish'd in a hasty spleen. 
The Tor of Glastonbury! Even but no\A- 
I saw the hoary pile cresting the top 
Of that north-western hill ; and in this Now 
A cloud hath pass'd on it, and its dim bulk 
Becomes annihilate, or if not, a spot 
Which the strain'd vision tires itself to find. 
And even so fares it with the tilings of earth 
Which seem most constant : there will come the cloud 
That shall enfold them up, and leave their place 
A seat for Emptiness. Our narrow ken 
Reaches too far, when all that we behold 
Is but the havoc of wide-wasting Time, 
Or Avhat he soon shall spoil. His out-spread wings 
(Which bear him like an eagle o'er the earth) 
Are plumed in front so downy soft, they seem 
To foster what they touch, and mortal fools 
Rejoice beneath their hovering : Woe the while ! 
For in that indefatigable flight 
The multitudinous strokes incessantly 
Bruise all beneath their cope, and mark on all 
His secret injury : on the front of man 
Grey hairs and Avrinkles ; still as Time speeds on, 
Hard and more hard his iron pennons beat 
With ceaseless violence ; nor overpass, 
Till all the creatures of this nether AA'orld 
Ai-e one wide quarry; following dark behind. 
The cormorant Oblivion swallows up 
The carcases that Time has made bis jiroy. 
45 



LEWESDON HILL. 

But hark ! the village clock strikes nine — the chimes' 

Merrily follow, tuneful to the sense 

Of the pleased clown attentive, while they make 

False-measured melody on crazy bells. 

wondrous power of modulated sound ! 

Which, like the air, (whose all-obedient shape 

Thou mak'st thy slave,) canst subtilly pervade 

The yielded avenues of sense, unlock 

The close affections, by some fairy path 

Winning an easy way through every ear. 

And with thine unsubstantial quality 

Holding in mighty chains the hearts of all ; 

All, but some cold and sullen-temper'd spirits 

Who feel no touch of sympathy, or love. 

Yet what is music, and the blended power 

Of voice with instruments of Avind and string? 

What but an empty pageant of sweet noise ! 

'Tis past; and all that it has left behind 

Is but an echo dwelling in the ear 

Of the toy-taken fancy, and beside, 

A void and countless hour in life's brief day. 

Now I descend 
To join the worldly crowd ; perchance to talk, 
To think, to act as they : then all these thoughts, 
That lift th' expanded heart above this spot 
To heavenly musing, these shall pass away, 
(Even as this goodly prospect from my view,) 
Hidden by near and earthy-rooted cares. 
So passeth human life — our better mind 
Is as a Sunday's garment, then put on 
Wlien we have nought to do ; but at our work 
We wear a worse for thrift. 



46 







PERCY. 
THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. 

It was a friar of orders gray 
Walkt forth to tell his beades; 

47 



THE FRIAIl OF ORDERS GRAY. 

And he met with a hidy fhire 
Clad in a ])ilgrinie's weedes. 

''Now Christ thee pave, thou reverend f'riai- 

I pray thee tell to me, 
If ever at yon holy shrine 

My true love thou didst see?"' 

" And how should I know your true lov<> 

From many another one?" 
"O, by his cockle hat, and stall'. 

And by his sandal shoone ; 

"But chiefly by his face and mien, 

That were so fair to view ; 
His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd. 

And eyne of lovely blue." 

" lady, he is dead and gone ! 

Lady, he's dead and gone ! 
And at his head a green grass turfc, 

And at his heels a stone. 

"Within these holy cl oysters lonp 

He languisht, and he dyed, 
Lamenting of a ladye's love. 

And 'playning of her pride. 

" Here bore him barefaced on his bier 

Six proper youths and tall. 
And many a tear bedew'd his grave 

AVithin yon kirk-yard wall." 

"And art thou dead, thou gentle youlh. 
And art thou dead and gone ! 

And didst thou dye I'or love of nie '. 
Break, cruel heart of stone!'" 

48 



PEKCY. 

" O weep not, lady, weep not soe : 

Some ghostly comlbi't seek : 
Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, 

Ne teares bedew thy cheek." 

'• O do not, do not, holy friar. 

My sorrow now reprove ; 
For I have lost the sweetest youth 

That e'er won ladye's love. 

"And nowe, alas! for thy sad losse, 

I'll evermore weep and sigh : 
For thee I only Avisht to live, 

For thee I wish to dye." 

"Weep no more, lady, weep no more. 

Thy sorrowe is in vaine : 
For violets pluckt the sweetest showers 

Will ne'er make grow againe. 

" Our joys as winged dreams doe flye ; 

Why, then, should sorrow last? 
Since grief but aggravates thy losse. 

Grieve not for what is past." 

" O say not soe, thou holy friar ; 

I pray thee, say not soe : 
For since my true-love dyed for mee, 

'Tis meet my teares should flow. 

"And will he never come again? 

WUl he ne'er come again? 
Ah ! no, he is dead and laid in his grave, 

For ever to remain. 

" His cheek was redder than the rose ; 
The comeliest youth was he ! 
49 



THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. 

But he is dead and laid in his grave : 
Alas! and woe is me!" 

" Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more, 

Men were deceivers ever : 
One foot on sea and one on land. 

To one thing constant never. 

" Hadst thou been fond, he had been false. 

And left thee sad and heavy ; 
For young men ever were fickle found. 

Since summer trees were leafy." 

"Now say not soe, thou holy friar, 

I pray thee say not soe ; 
My love he had the truest heart: 

O he was ever true ! 

" And art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youth; 

And didst thou dye for mee"? 
Then farewell home ; for evermore 

A pilgrim I will bee. 

"But first upon my true-love's grave 

My weary limbs I'll lay. 
And thrice I'll kiss the green grass-turf 

That A\Taps his breathless clay." 

" Yet stay, fair lady : rest awhile 

Beneath this cloyster wall: 
See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind, 

And drizzly rain doth fall." 

" O stay me not, thou holy friar ; 

O stay me not, I pray; 
No drizzly rain that falls on me 

Can wash my fault away." 
50 



PERCY. 

" Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, 

And dry those pearly tears ; 
For see beneath this gowTi of gray 

Thy o^vne true-love appears. 

"Here, forc'd by grief, and hopeless love, 

These holy vv^eeds I sought; 
And here amid these lonely walls 

To end my days I thought. 

" But haply, for my year of grace 

Is not yet pass'd away, 
Might I still hope to win thy love, 

No longer would I stay." 

"Now farewell grief, and welcome joy 

Once more unto my heart; 
For since I've found thee, lovely youth, 

We never more will part." 



GENTLE RIVER. 

Gentle river, gentle river, 

Lo, thy streams are stain'd with gore. 
Many a brave and noble captain 

Floats along thy willow' d shore. 

All beside thy limpid waters, 
All beside thy sands so bright, 

Moorish Chiefs and Christian Warriors 
Join'd in fierce and mortal fight. 
:>] 



GENTLE RIVEE. 

Lords, and dukes, and noble princes, 
On thy fatal banks were slain : 

Fatal banks, that gave to slaughter 
All the pride and flower of Spain. 

There the hero, brave Alonzo, 
Full of wounds and glory, died: 

There the fearless Urdiales 
Fell a victim by his side. 

Lo! where yonder Don Saavedra 

Tlirough their squadrons slow retires; 

Proud Seville, his native city, 
Proud Seville his worth admires. 

Close behind, a renegado 

Loudly shouts with, taunting cry: 
"Yield thee, yield thee, Don Saavedra; 

Dost thou from the battle fly? 

"Well I know thee, haughty Christian, 
Long I liv'd beneath thy roof; 

Oft I've in the lists of glory 

Seen thee win the prize of proof. 

"Well I know thy aged parents. 
Well thy blooming bride I know ; 

Seven years I was thy captive. 
Seven years of pain and woe. 

'• May our Prophet grant my wishes. 
Haughty Chief, thou shalt be mine ; 

Thou shalt drink that cup of sorrow. 
Which I drank when I was thine." 
52 




Like a lion turns the warrior 
Back he sends an angry glare: 

AVliizzing came the Moorish javelin. 
Vainly whizzing through the air. 
53 



GENTLE RIVER. 

13ack the hero, full of fury, 

Sent a deep and naortal wound: 

Instant sunk the Renegado, 

Mute and lifeless on the ground. 

With a thousand Moors surrounded, 
Brave Saavedra stands at bay: 

Wearied out, but never daunted, 
Cold at length the warrior lay. 

Near him fighting, great Alonzo 
Stout resists the Paynim bands; 

From his slaughter'd steed dismounted 
Firm intrench'd behind him stands. 

Furious press the hostile squadron. 
Furious he repels their rage : 

Loss of blood at length enfeebles : 
Who can war with thousands wage! 

Where yon rock the plain o'ershadows, 
Close beneath its foot retir'd, 

Fainting, sunk the bleeding hero, 
And without a groan expir'd. 



54 




CRABBE. 
A GIPSY ENCAMPMENT. 

Again, the country was enclosed, a wide 
And sandy road has banks on either side ; 
Where, lo! a hollow on the left appear'd, 
And there a Gipsy tribe their tent had rcar'd 
55 



A GIPSY ENCAMPMENT. 

'Twas open spread, to catch the mornhig sun, 
And they had now their early meal begun, 
When two brown boys just left then* grassy seat, 
The early Trav'ller Avith their prayers to greet : 
While yet Orlando held his pence in hand, 
He saw their sister on her duty stand; 
Some twelve years old, demure, affected, sly. 
Prepared the force of early powers to try; 
Sudden a look of languor he descries, 
And well-feign'd apprehension in her eyes ; 
Train'd, but yet savage, in her speaking face 
He mark'd the features of her vagrant race; 
When a light laugh and roguish leer express'd 
The vice implanted in her youthful breast : 
Forth from the tent her elder brother came, 
Wlio seem'd offended, yet forbore to blame 
The young designer, but could only trace 
The looks of pity in the Traveler's face: 
Within, the Father, who from fences nigh 
Had brought the fuel for the fire's supply. 
Watch' d now the feeble blaze, and stood dejected by. 
On ragged rug, just borrow' d from the bed, 
And by the hand of coarse indulgence fed, 
In dirty patchwork negligently dress'd, 
Eeclin'd the Wife, an infant at her breast; 
In her wild face some touch of grace remain'd, 
Of vigour palsied and of beauty stain'd ; 
Her bloodshot eyes on her unheeding mate 
Were AATatliful turn'd, and seem'd her wants to state. 
Cursing his tardy aid — her Mother there 
With gipsy-state engross'd the only chair ; 
Solemn and dull her look ; with such she stands 
And reads the milk -maid's fortune in her hands, 
Tracing the lines of life ; assum'd through years, 
Each feature now the steady falsehood wears ; 
With hard and savage eye she views the food, 
And grudging pinches their intruding brood. 
5G 



CRABBE, 

Last in the group, the worn-out Granclsire sits, 
Neglected, lost, and living but by fits : 
Useless, despis'd, his worthless labours done. 
And half protected by the vicious Son, 
"Wlio half supports him ; he with heavy glance 
Views the young ruflians who around him dance ; 
And, by the sadness in his face, appears 
To trace the progress of their future years : 
Through what strange course of misery, vice, deceit, 
Must wildly wander each unpractis'd cheat ! 
"What shame and grief, Avhat punishment and pain, 
Sport of fierce passions, must each child sustain — 
Ere they like him approach their latter end. 
Without a hope, a comfort, or a friend ! 



MARINE VIEWS. 

Be it the Summer-noon : a sandy space 
The ebbing tide has left upon its place ; 
Then just the hot and stony beach above. 
Light twinkling streams in bright confusion move ; 
(For heated thus, the warmer air ascends. 
And with the cooler in its fall contends) — 
Then the broad bosom of the ocean keeps 
An equal motion ; swelling as it sleeps. 
Then slowly sinking; curling to the strand. 
Faint, lazy waves o'ercreep the rigid sand. 
Or tap the tarry boat with gentle blow, 
And back return in silence, smooth and slow. 
57 



MAEINE VIEWS. 

Ships in the calm seem anchor'd ; for they glide 

On the still sea, urg'd solely by the tide : 

Art thou not present, this calm scene before, 

"Where all beside is pebbly length of shore, 

And far as eye can reach, it can discern no more ? 

Yet sometimes comes a ruiSing cloud to make 
The quiet surface of the ocean shake ; 
As an awaken'd giant Avith a frown 
IMight show his wrath, and then to sleep sink down. 

View now the Winter-storm ! above, one cloud, 
Black and unbroken, all the skies o'ershroud : 
Th' vuiwieldy porpoise through the day before. 
Had roll'd in view of boding men on shore ; 
And sometimes hid and sometimes show'd his form. 
Dark as the cloud, and furious as the storm. 

All where the eye delights, yet dreads, to roam, 
The breaking billows cast the flying foam 
Upon the billows rising — all the deep 
Is restless change ; the waves so swell'd and steep, 
Breaking and sinking, and the sunken swells, 
Nor one, one moment, in its station dwells : 
But nearer land you may the bUlows trace. 
As if contending in their watery chase ; 
May watch the mightiest till the shoal they reach, 
Then break and hurry to their utmost stretch ; 
Curl'd as they come, they strike with furious force, 
And then, re-flowing, take their grating course, 
Raking the rounded flints, which ages past 
Roll'd by their rage, and shall to ages last 

Far off the Petrel in the troubled way 
Swims with her brood, or flutters in the spray ; 
She rises often, often drops again. 
And sports at ease on the tempestuous main. 

High o'er the restless deep, above the reach 
Of gunner's hope, vast flocks of Wild-ducks stretch ; 
Far as the eye can glance on either side, 
In a broad space and level line they glide; 
58 






All in their wedge-like figures from the north, 
Day after day, flight after flight, go forth. 

In-shore their passago« tribes of sea-gulls urge, 
And drop for prey within the sweeping surge ; 
Oft in the rough opposing blast they fly 
Far back, then turn, and all their force apply. 
While to the storm they give their weak complaining cry; 

59 



MARINE VIEWS. 

Or clap the sleek wliite pinion to the breast, 
And in the restless ocean dip for rest. 

Darkness begins to reign ; the louder wind 
Appals the weak, and awes the firmer mind ; 
But frights not him whom evening and the spray 
In part conceal — yon Prowler on his way: 
Lo ! he has something seen ; he runs apace, 
As if he fear'd companion in the chase; 
He sees his prize, and now he turns again, 
Slowly and sorrowing — "Was your search in vain?" 
Gruffly he answers, " 'Tis a sorry sight ! — 
A seaman's body : there'll be more to-night !" 
Hark to those sounds ! they're from distress at sea : 
How quick they come ! What terrors may there be I 
Yes, 'tis a driven vessel: I discern 
Lights, signs of terror, gleaming from the stern. 
Others behold them too, and from the to"WTi 
In various parties seamen hurry down ; 
Their wives pursue, and damsels, urged by dread, 
Lest men so dear be into danger led ; 
Their head the gown has hooded, and their call 
In this sad night is piercing like the squall ; 
They feel their kinds of power, and Avhen they meet, 
Chide, fondle, weep, dare, threaten, or entreat. 

See one poor girl, all terror and alarm, 
Has fondly seiz'd upon her lover's arm ; 
" Thou shalt not venture ;" and he answers " No ! 
I will not :" — still she cries, " Thou shalt not go." 

No need of this ; not here the stoutest boat 
Can through such breakers, o'er such billows float ; 
Yet may they view these lights upon the beach. 
Which yield them hope whom help can never reach. 

From parted clouds the moon-, her radiance throws 
On the wild waves, and all the danger shows ; 
But shows them beaming in her shining vest. 
Terrific splendour ! gloom in glory dress'd ! 



GO 



CRABBE. 

This for a moment, and then clouds again 
Hide every beam, and fear and darkness reign. 

But hear we not those sounds'? Do lights appear? 
I see them not ! the storm alone I hear : 
And lo! the sailors homeward take their way; 
Man must endure — let us submit and pray. 




Gl 




A GOOD VILLAGER. 



Next to these ladies, but in nought allied, 
A noble peasant, Isaac Asliford, died. 
Noble he was, contemning all things mean, 
His truth unquestion'd, and his soul serene : 
Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid ; 
At no man's question Isaac look'd dismayed 
62 



CRABBE. 

Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace ; 

Truth, simple truth, was written in his face : 

Yet while the serious thought his soul approv'd. 

Cheerful he seem'd, and gentleness he lov'd ; 

To bliss domestic he his heart resign'd, 

And with the firmest had the fondest mind ; 

Were others joyful, he look'd smiling on, 

And gave allowance where he needed none ; 

Good he refus'd v/ith future ill to buy. 

Nor knew a joy that caus'd Retlection's sigh; 

A friend to Virtue, his unclouded breast 

No envy stung, no jealousy distress'd ; 

(Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker mind. 

To miss one favour, which their neighbours find :) 

Yet far was he from stoic pride remov'd ; 

He felt humanely, and he warmly lov'd: 

I mark'd his action, when his infant died, 

And his old neighbour for offence was tried ; 

The still tears, stealing down that furrow'd cheek. 

Spoke pity, plainer than the tongue can speak. 

If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride. 

Who, in their base contempt, the great deride ; 

Nor pride in learning, — though my clerk agreed, 

If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed ; 

Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew 

None his superior, and his equals few: — 

But if that spirit in his soul had place. 

It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace ; 

A pride in honest fame, by virtue gain'd. 

In sturdy boys to virtuous labours train'd ; 

Pride in the power that guards his country's coast, 

And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast ; 

Pride in a life that Slander's tongue defied, — 

In fact, a noble passion, misnam'd Pride. 

He had no party's rage, no sect'ry's whim ; 
Christian and countrymen were all with him: 
True to his church he came ; no Sunday-shower 
G3 



A GOOD VILLAGER. 

Kept him at home in that important hour ; 
Nor his firm feet could one persuading sect, 
By the strong glare of their new light direct : — 
" On hope, in mine own sober light, I gaze. 
But should be blind, and lose it, in your blaze." 

In times severe, when many a sturdy swain 
Felt it his pride, his comfort, to complain ; 
Isaac their wants would soothe, his own would hide. 
And feel in that his comfort and his pride. 

At length he found, when seventy years were run, 
His strength departed, and his labour done; 
When he, save honest fame, retain'd no more, 
But lost his Avife, and saw his children poor : 
'Twas then a spark of — say not discontent — 
Struck on his mind, and thus he gave it vent : — 

"Kind are your laws ('tis not to be denied,) 
That in yon House, for ruin'd age, provide, 
And they are just ; — when young we give jou all, 
And for assistance in our weakness call — 
Why then this proud reluctance to be fed, 
To join your poor, and eat the parish bread ? 
But yet I linger, loth with him to feed, 
Who gains his plenty by the sons of need ; 
He who, by contract, all your paupers took, 
And gauges stomachs with an anxious look : 
On some old master I could well depend; 
See him with joy, and thank him as a friend ; 
But ill on him, who doles the day's supply, 
And counts our chances who at night may die : 
Yet help me, Heav'n ! and let me not complain 
Of what I suffer, but my fate sustain." 

Such were his thoughts, and so resign'd he grew : 
Daily he plac'd the Workhouse in his view ! 
But came not there, for sudden was his fate, 
He dropp'd, expiring, at his cottage gate. 

I feel his absence in the hours of prayer, 
And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there : 
6-t 



CRABBE. 

I see no more those white locks thinly spread 
Round the bald polish of that honour' d head ; 
No more that a\\^'ul glance on playful Avight, 
Compell'd to kneel and tremble at the sight, 
To fold his fingers, all in dread the while, 
Till Mister Ashford soften'd to a smile ; 
No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer, 
Nor the pure faith (to give it force) are there : — 
But he is blest, and I lament no more 
A wise good man contented to be poor. 



THE PARTING LOOK. 

One day he lighter seem'd, and they forgot 

The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot ; 

They spoke with cheerfulness, and seem'd to think. 

Yet said not so, "Perhaps he will not sink:" 

A sudden brightness in his look appear'd, 

A sudden vigour in his voice was heard ; — 

She had been reading in the Book of Prayer, 

And led him forth, and placed him in his chair; 

Lively he seem'd, and spoke of all he knew. 

The friendly many and the favourite few : 

Not one that day did he to mind recal 

But she has treasur'd, and she loves them all ; 

When in her way she meets them, they appear 

Peculiar people, — death has made them dear. 

He named his Friend, but then his hand she press'd, 

And fondly whispered, "Thou must go to rest." 

" I go," he said ; but as he spoke, she found 

His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound ! 

Then gazed afFrighten'd ; but she caught a last, 

A dying look of love, — and all was past ! 

0.") K 



MARY TIGHE. 



PSYCHE GAZING UPON THE LOVE-GOD. 



Allow'd to settle on celestial eyes, 
Soft Sleep, exulting, now exerts his sway, 
From Psyche's anxious pillow gladly flies 
To veil those orbs, whose pure and lambent ray 
The Powers of heaven submissively obey. 
Trembling and breathless then she softly rose, 
And seized the lamp, where it obscurely lay. 
With hand too rashly daring to disclose 
Phe sacred veil Avhich hung mysterious o'er her woes. 

Twice, as with agitated step she went. 
The lamp, expiring, shone with doubtful gleam, 
As though it warn'd her from her rash intent ; 
And twice she paus'd, and on its trembling beam 
Gazed with suspended breath, while voices seem 
With murmuring sound along the roof to sigh ; 
As one just waking from a troublous dream. 
With palpitating heart and straining eye, 
Still fix'd with fear remains, still thinks the danger nigh. 

Oh, daring Muse ! wilt thou indeed essay 
To paint the wonders which that lamp could show? 
And canst thou hope in living words to say 
The dazzling glories of that heavenly view? 
Ah ! well I ween that, if with pencil true 
66 



MARY TIGHE. 

That splendid vision could be well exprest, 
The fearful awe imprudent Psyche knew, 
Would seize with rapture every wondering breast, 
When Love's all-potent charms divinely stood confest. 

All imperceptible to human touch, 
His wings display celestial essence light ; 
The clear effulgence of the blaze is such, 
The brilliant plumage shines so heavenly bright, 
That mortal eyes turn dazzled from the sight ; 
A youth he seems in manhood's freshest years. 
Round his fair neck, as clinging with delight, 
Each golden curl resplendentl}' appears, • 

Or shades his darker brow, Avhich grace majestic wears ; 

Or o'er his guileless front his ringlets bright 
Theu' rays of sunny lustre seem to throw, 
That front than polish'd ivory more white! 
His blooming cheeks with deeper blushes glow 
Than roses scatter'd o'er a bed of snow: 
While on his lips, distill'd in balmy dews, 
(Those lips divine that even in silence know 
Tlie heart to touch,) persuasion to infuse, 
Still hangs a rosy charm that never vainly sues. 

The friendly curtain of indulgent sleep 
Disclos'd not yet his eyes' resistless sway, 
But from their silky veil there seem'd to peej) 
Some brilliant glances with a soften'd ray, 
Wliich o'er his features exquisitely play, 
And all his polish'd limbs suffuse with light ; 
Thus through some narrow space the azure day. 
Sudden its cheerful rays diffusing bright. 
Wide darts its lucid beams, to gild the brow of night. 

His fatal arrows and celestial bow 
Beside the couch were negligently thrown, 
67 



PSYCHE GAZING UPON THE LOVE-GOD. 

Nor needs the god his dazzling arms, to show 
His glorious birth, such beauty round him shone 
As sure could spring from Beauty's self alone ; 
The gloom which glow'd o'er all of soft desire, 
Could well proclaim him Beauty's cherish'd son ; 
And Beauty's self will oft these charms admire. 
And steal his witching smUe, his glance's living fire. 

Speechless Avith awe, in transport strangely lost, 
Long Psyche stood with fix'd adoring eye ; 
Her limbs immovable, her senses tost 
Between amazement, fear, and ecstasy. 
She hangs enamour'd o'er the deity — 
Till from her trembling hand extinguish'd falls 
The fatal lamp. — He starts — and suddenly 
Tremendous thunders echo through the halls, 
AVhile ruin's hideous crash bursts o'er the affrighted Avails. 

Dread Horror seizes on her sinking heart, 
A mortal chillness shudders at her breast ; 
Her soul shrinks fainting from Death's icy dart, 
The groan scarce utter'd dies but half-exprest, 
And down she sinks in deadly swoon opprest ; 
But when, at length, awakening from her trance 
The terrors of her fate stand all confest. 
In vain she casts around her timid glance. 
The rudely frowning scenes her former joys enhance. 

No traces of those joys, alas ! remain ; 
A desert solitude alone appears. 
No verdant shade relieves the sandy plain. 
The wide-spread waste no gentle fountain cheers. 
One barren face the dreary prospect wears ; 
Nought through the vast horizon meets her eye 
To calm the dismal tumult of her fears, 
No trace of human habitation nigh, 
A sandy wild beneath, above a threatening sky. 

68 




ANN EADCLIFFE. 



TO MELANCHOLY. 



Spirit of love and sorrow, — hail ! 

Thy solemn voice from far I hear, 
Mingling with Evening's dj'ing gale, 

HaU, with this sadly-pleasing tear! 



Oh, at this still, this lonely hour, 

Thine o^ti sweet hour of closing day. 

Awake thy lute, whose charmful power 
Shall call up Fancy to obey ; 
GO 



TO MELANCHOLY. 

To paint the wild romantic di'eam, 
That meets the poet's musing eye, 

As on the bank of shadowy streaiu 
He breathes to her the fervid sigh. 

lonely spirit! let thy song 

Lead me through all thy sacred haunt ; 
The minster's moonlight aisles along, 

Where spectres raise the midnight chaunt. 

1 hear their dirges faintly swell ! 
Then sink at once in silence drear. 

While, from the pillar'd cloister's cell, 
Dimly their gliding forms appear ! 

Ixad where the pine-woods wave on high, 
Whose pathless sod is darkly seen, 

As the cold moon, with trembling eye, 
Darts her long beams the leaves between. 

Lead to the mountain's dusky head, 
Where, far below, in shades profound. 

Wide forests, plains, and hamlets spread. 
And sad the chimes of vesper sound. 

Or guide me where the dashing oar 
Just breaks the stillness of the vale : 

As slow it tracks the winding shore. 
To meet the ocean's distant sail : 

To pebbly banks that Neptune laves. 
With measur'd surges, loud and deep ; 

Where the dark cliiF bends o'er the waves. 
And wild the winds of Autumn sweep. 

There pause at midnight's spectred hour, 
And list the long-resounding gale ; 

And catch the fleeting moonlight's power 
O'er foaming seas and distant sail. 
70 



ANN EADCLIFFE. 



SONG OF A SPIRIT. 



In the sightless air I dwell, 

On the sloping sunbeams play; 
Delve the cavern's inmost cell, 

Where never yet did daylight stray. 

I dive beneath the green sea waves. 

And gambol in the briny deeps ; 
Skim every shore that Neptune laves, 

From Lapland's plains to India's steeps. 

Oft I mount with rapid force. 

Above the wide earth's shadowy zone. 

Follow the day-star's flaming course. 

Through realms of space to thought unknown; 

And listen to celestial sounds 

That swell in air, unheard of men, 

As I watch my nightly rounds 
O'er woody steep and silent glen. 

Under the shade of waving trees. 

On the green bank of fountain clear, 

At pensive eve I sit at ease, 

While dying music murmurs near. 

And oft, on point of airy clift 

That hangs upon the western main, 

I watch the gay tints passing swift, 
And twUight veil the liquid plam. 
71 



SONG OF A SPIRIT. 

Then, when the breeze has sunk away, 
And Ocean scarce is heard to lave, 

For me the sea-nymphs softly play 
Then" dulcet shells beneath the wave. 

Their dulcet shells ! — I hear them now ; 

Slow swells the strain upon mine ear ; 
Now fointly falls — now wai-bles low, 

Till rapture melts into a tear. 

The ray that silvers o'er the dew. 

And trembles through the leafy shade, 

And tints the scene with softer hue. 
Calls me to rove the lonely glade ; 

Or hie me to some ruin'd tower. 
Faintly showii by moonlight gleam, 

Wliere the lone wanderer owns my power. 
In shadows dire that substance seem ; 

In thrilling sounds that murmur woe, 
And pausing silence make more dread ; 

In music breathing from below 

Sad, solemn strains, that wake the dead. 

Unseen I move — unknown am fear'd ; — 
Fancy's wildest dreams I weave ; 

And oft by bards my voice is heard 
To die alone the sales of eve. 





ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD. 
A SUMMER EVENING'S MEDITATION. 

"One sun by day, by night ten thousand shine."— Young. 

'Tis past,— the sultry tyrant of the South 
Has spent his short-liv'd rage; more grateful hours 

73 



A SUMMER EVENING'S MEDITATION. 

Move silent ou ; the skies no more repel 

The dazzled sight, but, with mild maiden beams 

Of temper'd lustre, court the cherish'd eye 

To wander o'er their sphere ; where hung aloft 

Dian's bright crescent, like a silver bow, 

New strung in heaven, lifts its beamy horns 

Impatient for the night, and seems to push 

Her brother down the sky. Fair Venus shines 

Even in the eye of day ; with sweetest beam 

Propitious shines, and shakes a trembling flood 

Of soften'd radiance with her dewy locks. 

The shadows spread apace ; while meeken'd Eve, 

Her cheek yet warm with blushes, slow retu'cs 

Through the Hesperian gardens of the West, 

And shuts the gates of Day. 'Tis now the hour 

When Contemplation, from her sunless haunts, 

The cool damp grotto, or the lonely depth 

Of unpierc'd woods, where wrapt in solid shade 

She mus'd away the gaudy hours of noon, 

And fed on thoughts unripen'd by the sun. 

Moves forward ; and with radiant finger points 

To yon blue concave swell'd by breath divine, 

Where, one by one, the living eyes of heaven 

Awake, quick kindling o'er the face of ether 

One boundless blaze ; ten thousand trembling fires. 

And dancing lustres, where th' unsteady eye, 

Restless and dazzled, wanders unconfin'd 

O'er all this field of glories ; spacious field. 

And worthy of the Master: He, whose hand 

With hieroglyphics elder than the Nile 

Inscribed the mystic tablet; hung on high 

To public gaze, and said, Adore, O man! 

The finger of thy God. From what pure wells 

Of milky light, what soft o'erflowing urn. 

Are all these lamps so fill'd? — these friendly lamps, 

For ever streaming o'er the azure deep 

To point our path, and light us to our home. 



ANNA LETITIA BAEBAULD. 

How soft they slide along their lucid spheres ! 

And, silent as the foot of Time, fulfil 

Their destiu'd courses. Nature's self is hush'd, 

And, but a scatter'd leaf, which rustles through 

The thick-wove foliage, not a sound is heard 

To break the midnight air; though the rais'd ear, 

Intensely listening, drinks in every breath. 

IIow deep the silence, yet how loud the praise! 

But are they silent all? or is there not 

A tongue in every star that talks with man. 

And woos him to be wise ? nor woos in vain : 

This dead of midnight is the noon of thought. 

And Wisdom mounts her zenith with the stars. 

At this still hour the self-collected soul 

Turns inward, and beholds a stranger there 

Of high descent, and more than mortal rank ; 

An embryo God ; a spark of fire divine. 

Which must burn on for ages, when the sun 

(Fair transitory creature of a day !) 

Has clos'd his golden eye, and, wrapt in shades, 

Forgets his wonted journey through the East. 

Ye citadels of light, and seats of Gods ! 
Pex'haps my future home, from whence the soul, 
Revolving periods past, may oft look back. 
With recollected tenderness, on all 
The various busy scenes she left below, 
Its deep-laid projects and its strange events, 
As on some fond and doting tale that sooth'd 
Her infant hours — O be it lawful now 
To tread the hallow'd circle of your courts. 
And with mute wonder and delighted awe 
Approach your burning confines. Seized in thought, 
On Fancy's wild and roving wing I sail, 
From the green borders of the peopled earth. 
And the pale moon, her duteous, fair attendant ; 
From solitary Mars ; from the vast oi'b 



75 



A SUMMER EVENING'S MEDITATION. 

Of Jupiter, whose huge gigantic bulk 

Dances in ether Uke the lightest leaf; 

To the dim verge, the suburbs of the system, 

"VVTiere cheerless Saturn 'midst his wat'ry moons 

Girt with a lucid zone, in gloomy pomp, 

Sits like an exiled monarch : fearless thence 

I launch into the trackless deeps of space. 

Where, burning round, ten thousand suns appear, 

Of elder beam, Avhich ask no leave to shine 

Of our terrestrial star, nor borrow light 

From the proud regent of our scanty day ; 

Sons of the morning, first-born of creation, 

And only less than IIiu who marks their track, 

And guides theu" fiery wheels. Here must I stop, 

Or is there aught beyond? What hand unseen 

Impels me onward through the glowing orbs 

Of habitable nature, far remote, 

To the dread confines of eternal night, 

To solitudes of waste unpeopled space. 

The deserts of creation, wide and wild ; 

Where embryo systems and unkindled suns 

Sleep in the womb of chaos? Fancy droops, 

And Thought, astonish'd, stops her bold career. 

But oh, thou mighty Mind ! whose powerful word 

Said, Thus let all things be, and thus they were, 

WTiere shall I seek thy presence? how unblam'd 

Invoke thy dread perfection? 

Have the broad eye-lids of the morn beheld thee? 

Or does the beamy shoulder of Orion 

Support thy throne? Oh, look with pity down 

On ei-ring, guilty man ; not in thy names 

Of terror clad; not with those thunders arm'd 

That conscious Sinai felt, when fear appall'd 

The scatter'd tribes; thou hast a gentler voice, 

That whispers comfort to the swelling heart. 

Abash' d, yet longing to behold her Maker! 



76 



ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD. 

But now my soul, imus'd to stretch her powers 

In flight so daring, drops her weary wing, 

And seeks again the known aceustom'd spot, 

Drest up with sun, and shade, and lawns, and streams, 

A mansion fair and spacious for its guests. 

And all replete with wonders. Let me here, 

Content and grateful, wait th' appointed time, 

And ripen for the skies: the hour will come 

When all these splendours bursting on my sight 

Shall stand unveil'd, and to my ravish'd sense 

Unlock the glories of the world unkno^m. 



A PETITION. 



If the soft hand of -spinning Pleasure leads 
By living waters, and through flowery meads, 
Where all is smiling, tranquil, and serene, 
And Accrual beauty paints the flattering scene, 
Oh! teach me to elude each latent snare, 
And whisper to my sliding heart, — Beware! 
With caution let me hear the Syren's voice, 
And doubtful, with a trembling heart rejoice. 
If friendless in a vale of tears I stray. 
Where briers wound, and thorns perplex my way, 
Still let my steady soul thy goodness see, 
And, with strong confidence, lay hold on Thee ; 
With equal eye my various lot receive, 
Resign'd to die, or resolute to live ; 
Prepar'd to kiss the sceptre or the rod. 
While God is seen in all, and all in God. 



77 




HANNAH :jirOEE. 



FLORIO AND HIS FRIEND 



TWO PORTRAITS. 



Florio, a youth of gay renown, 
Who figur'd much about the towTi, 
Had pass'd, with general approbation, 
The modish forms of education ; 
78 



HANNAH MORE. 

Knew what was proper to be known, 
Th' establish'd jargon of Bon-ton ; 
Had learnt, with very moderate reading, 
The whole new system of good breeding : 
He studied to be cold and rude. 
Though native feeling would intrude : 
Unlucky sense and sympathy 
SpoUt the vain thing he strove to be. 
For Florio was not meant by nature, 
A sUly or a Avorthless creature : 
He had a heart dispos'd to feel, 
Had life and spirit, taste and zeal ; 
Was handsome, generous; but, by fate, 
Predestin'd to a large estate ! 
Hence, all that grac'd his op'ning days 
Was marr'd by pleasure, spoiFd by praise. 
The Destiny, who wove the thread 
Of Florio's being, sigh'd, and said, 
" Poor youth ! this cumbrous twist of gold, 
More than my shuttle Avell can hold, 
For which thy anxious fathers toU'd, 
Thy white and even thread has spoU'd : 
'Tis this shall warp thy pliant youth 
From sense, simplicity, and truth ; 
Thy erring fire, by wealth misled. 
Shall scatter pleasures round thy head, 
When wholesome discipline's control 
Should brace the sinews of thy soul ; 
Coldly thou'lt toil for learning's prize. 
For why should he that's rich be wise?" 
The gracious Master of mankind, 
AVho knew us vain, corrupt, and blind, 
In mercy, though in anger, said. 
That man should earn his daily bread ; 
His lot inaction renders worse, 
^Vliile labour mitigates the curse ; 
The idle life's worst burdens bear, 
79 



FLORIO AND HIS FRIEND. 

And meet, what toil escapes, despaii'! 
Forgive, nor lay the fault on me, 
This mixture of mythology ; 
The Muse of Paradise has deign'd 
With truth to mingle fables feign'd ; 
And though the Bard that would attain 
The glories, Milton, of thy strain. 
Will never reach thy style or thoughts, 
He may be like thee — in thy faults ! 

Exhausted Florio, at the age 
When youth should rush on glory's stage, 
Wlien life should open fresh and new. 
And ardent Hope her schemes pursue ; 
Of youtliful gaiety bereft, 
Had scarce an inibroach'd pleasure left ; 
He found already to his cost. 
The shining gloss of life was lost ; 
And Pleasure was so coy a prude. 
She fled the more, the more pursued ; 
Or if o'ertaken and caress'd, 
He loath'd and left her when possess' d. 
But Florio knew the World ; that science 
Sets sense and learning at defiance ; 
He thought the World to him was known, 
Wliereas he only knew the Town ; 
In men this blunder still you find. 
All think their little set — Mankind. 

Though high renown the youth had gain'd^ 
No flagrant crimes his life had stain'd. 
No tool of falsehood, slave of passion. 
But spoilt by Custom, and the Fashion. 
Though known among a certain set, 
He did not like to be in debt ; 
He shudder'd at the dicer's box. 
Nor thought it very heterodox 
That tradesmen should be sometimes paid. 
And bargains kept as well as made. 
80 



HANNAH MORE. 

His growing credit, as a sinner, 
Was that he lik'd to spoil a dinner ; 
Made pleasure and made business wait ; 
And still, by system, came too late ; 
Yet 'twas a hopeful indication 
On which to found a reputation : 
Small habits, well pursued, betimes 
May reach the dignity of crimes ; 
And who a juster claim preferr'd 
Than one who always broke his word? 
His mornings were not spent in vice, 
'Twas lounging, sauntering, eating ice ; 
Walk up and down St. James's Street, 
Full fifty times the youth you'd meet: 
He hated cards, detested drinking. 
But stroll'd to shun the toil of thinking ; 
'Twas doing nothing was his curse, — 
Is there a vice can plague us worse ? 
The wretch who digs the mine for bread, 
Or ploughs, that others may be fed. 
Feels less fatigue than that decreed 
To him who cannot think, or read. 
Not all the peril of temptations, 
Not all the conflict of the passions, 
Can quench the spark of Glory's flame, 
Or quite extinguish Virtue's name. 
Like the true taste for genuine saunter, 
Like Sloth, the soul's most dire enchanter. 
The active fires that stir the breast 
Her poppies charm to fatal rest ; 
They rule in short and quick succession. 
But Sloth keeps • one long, fast possession : 
Ambition's reign is quickly clos'd, 
Th' usurper Rage is soon depos'd ; 
Litemperance, where there's no temptation. 
Makes voluntary abdication ; 
Of other tyrants short the strife, 
81 



FLORIO AND HIS FRIEND. 

But Indolence is king for life: 
The despot twists, Avith soft control, 
Eternal fetters round the soul. 

Yet though so polish'd Florio's breeding, 
Think him not ignorant of reading : 
For he, to keep him from the vapours, 
Subscrib'd at Hookham's, saw the papers ; 
Was deep in poet's-corner wit; 
Knew what was in italics writ ; 
Explain' d fictitious names at will ; 
Each gutted syllable could fill. 
There oft, in paragraphs, his name 
Gave symptom sweet of growiri^ fame ; 
Though yet they only serv'd to hint 
That Florio lov'd to see in print 
His ample buckles' alter'd shape, 
His buttons chang'd, his varying cape ; 
And many a standard phrase was his 
Might rival boi^e, or banish quiz. 
The man who grasps this young renown, 
And early starts for Fashion's crown. 
In time that glorious prize may wield, 
AVhich clubs and ev'n Newmarket yield. 

He studied while he dress'd, for, true 'tis. 
He read Compendiums, Extracts, Beauties, 
Ahreges, Dictionnaires, Hecueils, 
Mercures, Journaux, Extraits, and Feuilles : 
No work in substance now is foUow'd, 
The chemic extract only's swallow' d. 
He lik'd those literary cooks 
Who skim the cream of others' books ; 
And ruin half an author's graces 
By plucking bon mots from their places. 
He wonders any WTiting sells 
But these spic'd mushrooms and morells. 
His palate works alone can touch 
Where every mouthful is bonne boucJie. 
82 



HANNAH MORE. 

Some phrase that with the public took 
Was all he read of any book ; 
For plan, detail, arrangement, system, 
He let them go, and never miss'd 'em. 
Of each new Flay he saw a part, 
And all the anas had by heart : 
He found whatever they produce 
Is fit for conversation-use ; 
Learning so ready for display, 
A page Avould prime him for a day: 
They cram not with a mass of knowledge, 
Which smacks of toil, and smells of college, 
Wliich in the memory viseless lies. 
Or only makes men — good and wise. 
This might have merit once, indeed, 
But now for other ends we read. 
A friend he had, Bellario hight, 
A reasoning, reading, learned wight ; 
At least, with men of Florio's breeding, 
He was a prodigy of reading. 
He knew each stale and vapid lie 
In tomes of French philosopliy ; 
And these, we fairly may presume, 
From Pyrrho down to David Hume, 
'Twere difficult to single out 
A man more full of shallow doubt : 
He knew the little sceptic prattle, 
The sophist's paltry arts of battle ; 
Talk'd gi'avely of th' Atomic dance, 
Of moral fitness, fate, and chance ; 
Admir'd the system of Lucretius, 
Whose matchless verse makes nonsense specious! 
To this his doctrine owes its merits. 
Like pois'nous reptiles kept in spirits ; 
Though sceptics dull his schemes rehearse. 
Who have not souls to taste his verse. 
Beluario founds his reputation 
83 



FLORIO AND HIS FRIEND. 

On dry, stale jokes about Qi-eation ; 
Would prove, by argument circuitous. 
The combination was fortuitous. 
Swore priests' whole trade was to deceive, 
And prey on bigots who believe ; 
With bitter ridicule could jeer. 
And had the true free-thinking sneer. 
Grave arguments he had in store. 
Which had been answer'd o'er and o'er; 
And us'd, with wondrous penetration. 
The trite, old trick of false citation ; 
From ancient authors fond to quote 
A phrase, or thought, they never wrote. 
Upon his highest shelf there stood 
The Classics, neatly cut in wood ; 
And in a more commodious station. 
You found them in a French translation : 
He swears, 'tis from the Greek he quotes. 
But keeps the French — just for the notes. 
He worshipp'd certain modern names 
Who history write in epigrams, 
In pointed periods, shining phrases. 
And all the small poetic daisies 
Which crowd the pert and florid style. 
Where fact is dropt to raise a smile ; 
Wliere notes indecent or profane 
Serve to 7-aise doubts, but not explain : 
AMiere all is spangle, glitter, show. 
And truth is overlaid below: 
Arts scorn'd by History's sober Muse, 
Arts Clarendon disdain'd to use. 
Whate'er the subject of debate, 
'Twas larded still with sceptic prate ; 
Begin whatever theme you Avill, 
In unbelief he lands you still : 
The good, with shame I speak it, feel 
Not half this proselyting zeal: 
84 



HANNAH MORE. 

While cold their Master's cause to own, 

Content to go to heav'n alone, 

The infidel, in liberal trim, 

Would carry all the world with him ; 

Would trust his wife, friend, kindred, nation. 

Mankind — with what? Annihilation. 

Though Florio did not quite believe him. 
He thought, why should a friend deceive him? 
Much as he prized Bellakio's wit, 
He lik'd not all his notions yet ; 
He thought him charming, pleasant, odd. 
But hop'd one might believe in God ; 
Yet such the charms tliat grac'd his tongue, 
He knew not how to think him wrong. 
Though Florio tried a thousand ways, 
Truth's insuppressive torch would blaze : 
Where once her flame has burnt, I doubt 
If ever it go fairly out. 

Yet, under great Bellario's care, 
He gain'd each day a better air; 
With many a leader of renown. 
Deep in the learning of the Town, 
Who never other science knew, 
But what from that prime source they drew ; 
Pleas'd, to the Opera they repair. 
To get recruits of knowledge there ; 
Mythology gain at a glance. 
And learn the Classics from a dance : 
In Ovid they ne'er car'd a groat 
How far'd the vent'rous Argonaut; 
Yet charm' d they see Medea rise 
On fiery dragons to the skies. 
For Dido, though they never knew her 
As Maro's magic pencil drew her. 
Faithful and fond, and broken-hearted, 
Her pious Vagabond departed, 
Yet, for Didone how they roar ! 




And Cara! Cara! loud encore. 

One taste Bellario's soul possess'd, 
The master-passion of his bi'east ; 
It was not one of those frail joys, 
Which, by possession, quickly cloys ; 
This bliss was solid, constant, true, 
'Twas action, and 'twas passion too-, 
For though the business might be finish'd 
80 



HANNAH MORE. 

The pleasure scarcely Avas diminish'd ; 

Did he ride out, or sit, or walk, 

He liv'd it o'er again in talk ; 

Prolong'd the fugitive delight, 

In words by day, in dreams by night. 

'Twas eating did his soul allure, 

A deep, keen, modish Epicure ; 

Though once this name, as I opine. 

Meant not such men as live to dine ; 

Yet all our modern Wits assure us, 

That's all they know of Epicurus: 

They fondly fancy, that repletion 

Was the chief good of that fam'd Grecian. 

To live in gardens full of flowers, 

And talk philosophy in bowers, 

Or, in the covert of a wood, 

To descant on the sovereign good, 

Might be the notion of their founder, 

But they have notions vastly sounder: 

Their bolder standards they erect, 

To form a more substantial sect ; 

Old Epicurus would not own 'em, 

A Dinner is their summum bonum ; 

More like you'll find such sparks as these 

To Epicurus' deities ; 

Like them, they mix not with affairs. 

But loll and laugh at human cares. 

To beaux this difference is alloAv'd, 

They choose "a sofa for a cloud. 

Bellario had embrac'd with glee 

This practical philosophy. 



BOWLES. 
RETURN TO OXFORD. 

CHERWELL. 

Cherwell! how pleased along thy willow'cl edge 
Erewhile I stray'd ; or when the morn began 
To tinge aloft the turret's golden fan, 

Or Evening glimmer'd o'er the sighing sedge, 

And now, reclin'd upon thy banks once more, 
I bid the pipe farewell, and that sad lay 
Whose music on my melancholy way 

I woo'd, beneath thy willows waving hoar, 

Seeking to rest — till the returning sun 

Of joy beam out, as when Heaven's humid bow 
Shines silent on the passing storm below ; 

Whate'er betide, yet something have I won 

Of solace, that may bear me on serene, 

Till Eve's dim hand shall close the sinking scene. 



ON THE RHINE. 

'TwAS morn, and beautiful the mountains' brow, — 
Hung Avith the clusters of the bending vine — 
Shone in the early light, when on the Kiiine 

We sail'd, and heard the waters round the prow 

In murmurs parting; varying as we go. 

Rocks after rocks come forward and retire, 
As some grey convent-Avall, or sunlit spire 

Starts up, along the banks, unfolding slow. 





Here castles, like the prisons of despair, 

Frowii as we pass ! — There, on the vineyard's side, 
The bursting sunshine pours its streaming tide ; 
While Grief, forgetful amid scenes so fair, 
Counts not the hours of a long summer's day. 
Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away. 

89 



THE CELL OF THE jNIISSIONARY. 



THE CELL OF THE MISSIONARY. 

Fronting the ocean, but beyond the ken 

Of public view, and sounds of murm'iing men. — 

Of unhewn roots compos'd, and gnarled wood, 

A small and rustic Oratory stood : 

Upon its roof of reeds appear'd a cross, 

The porch within was lin'd with mantling moss ; 

A crucifix and hour-glass, on each side — 

One to admonish seem'd, and One to guide ; 

This, to impress how soon life's race is o'er; 

And that, to lift our hopes where time shall be no more. 

O'er the rude porch, with wild and gadding stray. 

The clust'ring copu weav'd its trellis gay : 

Two mossy pines, high bending, interwove 

Their aged and fantastic arms above. 

In front, amid the gay surrounding flow^ers, 

A dial counted the departing hours. 

On which the sweetest light of summer shone, — 

A rude and brief inscription mark'd the stone : — 

" To count, Avith passing shade, the hours, 
I plac'd the dial 'mid the flowers, 
That, one by one, came forth, and died. 
Blooming, and Avith'ring, round its side. 
Mortal, let the sight impart 
Its pensive moral to thy heart!" 

Just heard to trickle through a covert near, 
And soothing, with perpetual lapse, the ear, 
A fount, like rain-drops, filter'd through the stone, — 
And, bright as amber, on the shallows shone. 
Intent his fairy pastime to pursue, 
And, gem-like, hovering o'er the \-iolets blue, 

90 



BOWLES. 

The humming-bird, here, its unceasing song 
Heedlessly murmur'd all the summer long. 
And when the winter came, retir'd to rest, 
And from the myrtles hung its trembling nest. 
No sounds of a conflicting Avorld were near ; 
The noise of ocean faintly met the ear. 
That seem'd, as sunk to rest the noon-tide blast, 
But dying sounds of passions that were past ; 
Or closing anthems, when, far off, expire 
The lessening echoes of the distant choir. 

Here, every human sorrow hush'd to rest. 
His pale hands meekly cross'd upon his breast, 
Anselmo sat : the sun, with west' ring ray, 
Just touch'd his temples, and his locks of grey. 
There was no worldly feeling in his eye ; — 
The world to him "was as a thing gone by." 

Now, all his features lit, he rais'd liis look. 
Then bent it thoughtful, and unclasp'd the book ; 
And whilst the hour-glass shed its silent sand, 
A tame opossum lick'd his Avither'd hand. 
That sweetest light of slow-declining day. 
Which through the trellis pour'd its slanting ray, 
Kosting a moment on his few grey hairs, 
Seem'd light from heaven sent down to bless his pray'rs. 

When the trump eclio'd to the quiet spot, 
He thought upon the world, but mourn'd it not ; 
Enough if his meek Avisdom could control, 
And bend to mercy, one proud soldier's soul ; 
Enough, if while these distant scenes he trod. 
He led one erring Indian to his God. 



91 



THE HOME OF THE OLD INDIAN. 



THE HOME OF THE OLD INDIAN. 



Beneath aerial cliffs, and glittering snows, 

The rush-roof of an aged warrior rose, 

Chief of the mountain tribes : high, overhead. 

The Andes, wild and desolate, were spread, 

Where cold Sierras shot their icy spires. 

And Chilean trail'd its smoke, and smould'ring lires. 

A glen beneath — a lonely spot of rest — 

Kung, scarce discover'd, like an eagle's nest. 

Summer was in its prime ; — the parrot-flocks 

Darken'd the passing sunshine on the rocks ; 

The chrysomel and purple butterfly. 

Amid the clear blue light, are Avand'ring by ; 

The humming-bird, along the myrtle bow'rs. 

With twinkling wing, is spinning o'er the flow'rs, 

The w^oodpecker is heard with busy bill, 

The mock-bird sings — and all beside is still. 

And look! the cataract, that bursts so high 

As not to mar the deep tranquillity. 

The tumult of its dashing fall suspends, 

And, stealing drop by drop, in mist descends ; 

Through whose illumin'd spray and sprinkling dews, 

Shine to the adverse sun the broken rainbow hues. 

Check'ring, with partial shade, the beams of noon. 
And arching the grey rock with wild festoon, 
Here, its gay net-work, and fantastic twine. 
The purple cogul threads from pine to pine, 
And oft, as the fresh airs of morning breathe. 
Dips its long tendrils in the stream beneath. 
There, through the trunks, with moss and lichens white. 
The sunshine dasts its interrupted light, 

02 



BOWLES. 

And, 'mid the cedars' darksome boughs, illumes, 

With instant touch, the lori's scarlet plumes. 

So smiles the scene; — but can -its smiles impart 

Aught to console yon mourning warrior's heart ? 

He heeds not now, when, beautifully bright, 

1 he humming-bird is circling in his sight ; 

Nor e'en, above his head, when air is still, 

Hears the green woodpecker's resounding bill ; 

But, gazing on the rocks and mountains wild, 

Rock after rock, in glittering masses, pil'd 

To the volcano's cone, that shoots so high 

Grey smoke, whose column stains the cloudless sky, 

He cries, " Oh ! if thy spirit yet be fled 

To the pale kingdoms of the shadowy dead, — 

In yonder track of purest light above, 

Dear, long-lost object of a fathei^'s love, 

Dost thou abide? or, like a shadow come, 

Circling the scenes of thy remember'd home. 

And passing with the breeze? or, in the beam 

Of evening, light the desert mountain-stream? 

Or at deep midnight are thine accents heard. 

In the sad notes of that melodious bird. 

Which, as we listen with mysterious dread. 

Brings tidings from our friends and fathers dead ? 

Perhaps, beyond those summits, far away. 
Thine eyes yet view the living light of day ; 
Sad, in the stranger's land, thou mayst sustain 
A weary life of servitude and pain, 
With wasted eye gaze on the orient beam. 
And think of these white rocks and torrent-stream, 
Never to hear the summer cocoa wave, 
Or Aveep upon thy father's distant grave." 



Ye, who have wak'd, and listen' d with a tear. 
When cries confus'd, and clangours roll'd more near ; 
With murmur'd prayer, when Mercy stood aghast, 

93 



THE HOME OF THE OLD INDIAN. 

As War's black trump peal'd its terrific blast, 

And o'er the wither'd earth the armed giant pass'd. 

Ye, who his track with terror have pursued. 

When some delightful land, all blood-imbued. 

He swept ; where silent is the champaign wide. 

That echo'd to the pipe of yester-tide. 

Save, when far off, the moonlight hills prolong 

The last deep echoes of his parting gong ; 

Nor aught is seen, in the deserted spot 

Where trail'd the smoke of many a peaceful cot, 

Save livid corses that unburied lie. 

And conflagrations, reeking to the sky; 

Come listen, whilst the causes I relate 

That bow'd the warrior to the storms of fate, 

And left these smiling scenes forlorn and desolate. 

In other days, when, in his manly pride. 
Two children for a father's fondness vied, — 
Oft they essay'd, in mimic strife, to wield 
His lance, or laughing peep'd behind his shield. 
Oft in the sun, or the magnolia's shade. 
Lightsome of heart, as gay of look, they play'd, 
Brother and sister: She, along the dew, 
Blithe as the squirrel of the forest, flew ; 
Blue rushes wreath'd her head ; her dark brown hair 
Fell, gently lifted, on her bosom bare ; 
Her necklace shone, of sparkling insects made, 
That flit, like specks of fire, from sun to shade. 
Light was her form ; a clasp of silver brac'd 
The azure-dyed ichella round her waist ; 
Her ancles rung with shells, as, unconfin'd, 
She danc'd, and sung wild carols to the wind. 
With snow-white teeth, and laughter in her eye, — 
So, beautiful in youth, she bounded by. 

Yet kindness sat upon her aspect bland, — 
The tame alpaca stood and lick'd her hand ; 
She brought him gather'd moss, and lov'd to deck 
With flow'ry twine his tall and stately neck, 

Oi 



^> 



^^-. 




Wliilst he with silent gratitude replies, 
And bends to her caress his large blue eyes. 

These children danc'd together in the shade, 
Or stretch'd their hands to see the rainbow fade; 

95 



THE HOME OF THE OLD INDIAN. 

Or sat and moek'd, with imitative glee, 

The paroquet, that laugh'd from tree to tree ; 

Or through the forest's wiklest solitude, 

From glen to glen the marmozet pursued ; 

And thought the light of parting day too short, 

That call'd them, ling'ring, from their daily sport. 

In that fair season of awak'ning life. 
When dawning youth and childhood are at strife ; 
When on the verge of thought gay boyhood stands 
Tip-toe, with glist'ning eye and outspread hands ; 
With airy look, and form and footsteps light. 
And glossy locks, and features bei'ry-bright, 
And eye like the young eaglet's to the ray 
Of noon, unblenehing, as he sails away ; 
A brede of sea-shells on his bosom strung, 
A small stone hatchet o'er his shoulders slung. 
With slender lance, and feathers blue and red, 
That like the heron's crest wav'd on his head, — 
Buoyant with hope, and airiness, and joy, 
Lautako was the loveliest Indian boy : 
Taught by his sire, ev'n now he drew the bow, 
Or track'd the jaguar on the morning snow ; 
Startled the condor on the craggy height ; 
Then silent sat, and mark'd its upward flight. 
Lessening in ether to a speck of white. 

But when th' impassioned Chieftain spoke of war, 
Smote his broad breast, or pointed to a scar, — 
Spoke of the strangers of the distant main, 
And the proud banners of insulting Spain, — 
Of the barb'd horse and iron horseman spoke, 
And his red gods, that, wrapp'd in rolling smoke, 
Koar'd from the guns, — the Boy, Avith still-drawn breath, 
Hung on the wondrous tale, as mute as death ; 
Then rais'd his animated eyes, and cried, 

"O! LET ME PERISH BY MY FATHER'S SIDE !" 



or. 




LANDING AT TYNEMOUTH. 



As slow I climb the cliff'' s ascending side, 
Much musing on the track of terror past, 
When o'er the dark wave rode the howling Ijlast — 

Pleas'd I look back, and view the tranquil tich; 

That laves the pebbled shore: and now the beam 
Of evening smiles on the gi'cy battlement 
Of yon forsaken tower that Time has rent ; 

The lifted oar far off with transient gleam 

Is touch'd, and hush'd is all the billoA\y deep, 

97 a 



THE BURIAL PLACE. 

O'er-spent ; oh ! when on wakeful INIemory's breast 
Shall stillness steal like this, and kindred rest? 
Then some sweet harmonies might soothe her sleep, 
Harmonies, on the wandering minstrel's lyre, 
Like airs of parting day, that, as they breathe, expire. 



THE BURIAL PLACE. 



The Indian, sad and still, 
Pac'd on from wood to vale, from vale to hill ; . 
Her infant, tir'd, and hush'd awhile to rest, 
Smil'd, in a dream, upon its mother's breast ; 
The pensive mother grey, Anselmo led : 
Behind, Lautaro bore his Father dead. 

Beneath the branching palms they slept at night ; 
The small birds wak'd them ere the morning light. 
Before their path, in distant view, appear'd 
The mountain-smoke, that its dark column rear'd 
O'er Andes' summits, in the pale blue sky, 
Lifting their icy pinnacles so high. 
Four days they onward led their eastern way : 
On the fifth rising morn before them lay 
Ciiillan's lone glen, amid whose windings green 
The Warrior's lov'd and last abode was seen. 
No smoke went up, — stillness Avas all around, 
Save where the waters fell with soothing sound. 
Save Avhere the Thenca sung so loud and clear, 
And the bright humming-bird was spinning near. 

98 



BOWLES. 

Yet here all human tumults seem'd to cease, 
And sunshine rested on the spot of peace ; 
The m}a-tles bloom'd as fragrant and as green 
As if Lautaro scarce had left the scene, — 
And in his ear the falling water's spray 
Seem'd swelling with the sounds of yesterday. — 

""Wliere yonder rock the aged cedars shade, 
There shall my father's bones in peace be laid." 

Beneath the cedars' shade they dug the gi'ound ; 
The small and sad communion gather' d round. 
Beside the grave stood aged Izdabel, 
And broke the spear, and cried, " Farewell ! — farewell !' 
Lautaro hid his face, and sigh'd "Adieu!" 
As the stone hatchet in the grave he threw. 
The little child, that to its mother clung. 
With sidelong looks, that on her garment hung, 
Listen'd, half-shrinking, as with awe profound, 
And dropt its flowers, unconscious, on the ground. 
The Alpaca, grown old, and almost wild, 
Which poor Olola cherish'd, when a child, 
Came from the mountains, and, with earnest gaze, 
Seem'd as rememb'ring those departed days. 
When his tall neck he bent, with aspect bland, 
And lick'd, in silence, the caressing hand ! 

And now Anselmo, his pale brow inclin'd. 
The Warrior's relics, dust to dust, consign'd 
With Christian rites, and sung, on bending knee, 
"Eternam pacem dona, Domixe." 
Then, rising up, he clos'd the holy book, 
And lifting in the beam his lighted look, 
(The cross, with meekness, folded on his breast,) — 
" Here, too," he cried, " my bones in peace shall rest ! 
Few years remain to me, and never more 
Shall I behold, O Spain, thy distant shore ! 

99 



SUNRISE. 

Here lay my bones, that the same tree may wave 
O'er the poor Christian's and the Indian's grave. 
Then may it — (v^^hen the sons of future clays 
Shall hear our tale, and on the hillock gaze) — 
Then may it teach, that charity should bind, 
Where'er they roam, the brothers of mankind ! 
The time shall come, when wildest tribes shall hear 
Thy voice, O Christ! and drop the slaught'ring spear. 



SUNRISE. 



'Tis daAATi : — the distant Andes' rocky spires, 
(Jne after one, have caught the orient fires. 
Wliere the dun condor shoots his upward flight, 
His wings are touch'd with momentary light. 
Meantime, beneath the mountains' glittering heads, 
A boundless ocean of grey vapour spreads, 
That o'er the champaign, stretching far below. 
Moves on, in cluster'd masses, rising slow, 
Till all the living landscape is display'd 
In various pomp of colour, light, and shade : 
Hills, forests, rivers, lakes, and level plain, 
Less'ning in sunshine to the southern main. 
The Llama's fleece fumes with ascending dew; 
The gem-like humming-birds their toils i-enew; 

100 




And see, where yonder stalks, in crimson pride. 

The tall flamingo, by the river's side, — 

Stalks, in his richest plumage bright array'd, 

With snowy neck superb, and legs of length' ning shade. 



101 



EOGERS. 



THE OLD HOUSE. 



Makk jon old Mansion frowning tliro' the trees. 
Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze. 
That casement, arch'd with i\'y's brownest shade, 
First to these eyes the light of heaven convey'd. 
The mould' ring gateway shows the grass-grown court, 
Once the calm scene of many a simple sport ; 
When nature pleas'd, for life itself was new, 
And the heart promis'd what the fancy drew. 

See, through the fractur'd pediment reveal'd. 
Where moss inlays the rudely sculptur'd shield. 
The martin's old, hereditary nest — 
Long may the ruin spare its hallow' d guest ! 

As jars the hinge, Avhat sullen echoes call ! 
Oh haste, unfold the hospitable hall! 
That hall, where once in antiquated state. 
The chair of justice held the grave debate. 
Now stain'd with dews, Avith cobwebs darkly hung, 
Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung ; 
^Vhen round yon ample board, in due degree, 
We SAveeten'd every meal with social glee. 
The heart's light laugh pursued the circling jest. 
And all was sunshine in each little breast. 
'Twas here we chas'd the slipper by the sound ; 
And turn'd the blind-fold hero round and round. 
'Twas here, at eve, we form'd our fairy ring ; 
And Fancy tlutter'd on her wildest vnng- 

102 




Giants and genii claim' d each Avondering ear; 
And orphan-sorrows drew the ready tear. 
Oft with the babes we wander'd in the AA'ood, 
Or view'd the forest-feats of Kobin Hood : 

103 



MOTHEK AND CHILD. 

Oft, fancy led, at midnight's fearful hour 

With startling step we scal'd the lonely tower; 

O'er infant innocence to hang and weep, 

Murder' d by ruffian hands, when smiling ui its sleep. 

As o'er the dusky furniture I bend. 

Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend. 

The storied arras, source of fond delight, 

With old achievements charms the wilder'd sight ; 

And still, with heraldry's rich hues imprest. 

On the dim window glows the pictur'd crest. 

The screen unfolds its many-colour'd chart, 

The clock still points its moral to the heart. 

That faithful monitor 'twas heaven to hear, 

When soft it spoke a promis'd pleasure near ; 

And has its sober hand, its simple chime. 

Forgot to trace the feather'd feet of Time? 

The massive beam, with curious carving wrought, 

Whence the caged linnet sooth'd my pensive thought ; 

Those muskets, cased with venerable rust ; 

Those once-lov'd forms, still breathing thro' their dust ; 

Still from the frame, in mould gigantic cast, 

Starting to life — all whisper of the Past! 



MOTHER AND CHILD. 

The day arrives, the moment wish'd and fear'd : 
The child is born, by many a pang endear'd : 
And now, the Mother's ear has caught his cry ! 
Oh ! grant the cherub to her asking eye. 
He comes ! — she clasps him ! To her bosom prest, 
He drinks the balm of life, and drops to rest. 

Her by her smile how soon the Stranger knows ; 
How soon by his the glad discovery shows ! 
104 



ROGERS. 

As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy, 
AVTiat answering looks of sympathy and joy ! 
He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word 
His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard ; 
And ever, ever to her lap he flies. 
When rosy Sleep comes on with sweet surprise. 
Lock'd in her arms, his arms across her flung, 
(That name most dear for ever on his tongue,) 
As with soft accents round her neck he cHngs, 
And, cheek to cheek, her lixlling song she smgs, 
How blest to feel the beatings of his heart. 
Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss for kiss impart ; 
Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove, 
And, if she can, exliaust a mother's love ! 

But soon a nobler task demands her care, 
Apart she joins his little hands in prayer. 
Telling of Him who sees in secret there : 
And now the volume on her knee has caught 
His wandering eye — now many a written thought 
Never to die, with many a lisping sweet. 
His moving, murmuring lips endeavour to repeat. 
Released, he chases the bright butterfly ; 
Oh, he would follow — follow through the sky ! 
Climbs the gaunt mastiff slumbering in his chain. 
And chides and bufi'ets, clinging by the mane ; 
Then runs, and kneeling by the fountain-side. 
Sends his brave ship in triumph down the tide, 
A dangerous voyage ; or, if now he can. 
If now he wears the habit of a man. 
Flings off the coat so much his pride and pleasure, 
And, like a miser digging for his treasure. 
His tiny spade in his own garden plies, 
And in green letters sees his name arise ! 
Where'er he goes, for ever in her sight. 
She looks, and looks, and still with new delight. 



10a 



AMELIA OPIE. 



THE ORPHAN BOY'S TALE. 



Stay, Lady, stay, for mercy's sake, 

And hear a helpless Orphan's tale : 
Ah ! sure my looks must pity wake ; 

'Tis want that makes my cheek ?o pale. 
Yet I was once a mother's pride, 

And my brave father's hope and joy ; 
But in the Nile's proud fight he died — 

And I am now an orphan boy. 

Poor foolish child! how pleased was I, 

AVhen news of Nelson's victoiy came, 
Along the crowded streets to fly, 

And see the lighted windows flame ! 
To force me home my mother sought, 

She could not bear to see my joy ; 
For Avith my father's life 'twas bought. 

And made me a iX)or orphan boy. 

The people's shouts were long and loud, — 

My mother, shudd'ruig, closed her ears ; 
"Rejoice! rejoice!" still cried the crowd, — 

My mother answer'd with her tears. 
" Why are you crying thus," said I, 

" While others laugh and shout with joy *?" 
She kiss'd me — and, with such a sigh! 

She call'd me her poor orphan boy. 
lOG 




" What is an orplian boy f I cried, 

As in her face I look'd and smiled ; 
My mother through her tears replied, 

" You'll know too soon, ill-fated child !" 
And now they've toll'd my mother's knell, 

And I'm no more a parent's joy, — 
O Lady, — I have learnt too well 

What 'tis to be an orphan boy. 
107 



THE ORPHAN BOY'S TALE. 

Oh ! were I by your bounty fed ! — 

Nay, gentle Lady, do not chide, — 
Trust me, I mean to earn my bread ; 

The sailor's orphan boy has pride. 
Lady, you weep! — ha! — this to me? 

You'll give me clothing, food, employ? 
Look down, dear parents ! look, and see 

Your happy, happy orphan boy. 



WHiLIAM SPENCER 
TO THE LADY ANNE HAMILTON. 

Too late I stay'd, forgive the crime, 
Unheeded flew the hours ; 

How noiseless falls the foot of Time 
That only ti'eads on flowers! 

\Vliat eye with clear account remarks 

The ebbing of his glass. 
When all its sands are diamond spark 

That dazzle as they pass! 

All! who to sober measurement 
Time's happy swiftness brings, 

When birds of Paradise have lent 
Their plumage for its wings ? 



108 



SPENCEK. 



WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS. 

When the black-lettered list to the gods was presented 
(The list of what fate for each mortal intends). 

At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented, 

And slipped in three blessmgs — wife, children, and tricnds. 

In vain surly Pluto maintained he was cheated, 
For justice divine could not compass its ends; 

The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated, 

For earth becomes heaven with — wife, children, and friends 

If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands vested. 
The fund, ill-secured, oft in bankruptcy ends ; 

But the heart issues bills Avhich are never protested, 

When draA\ii on the firm of — wife, children, and friends. 

Though valour still glows in his life's dying embers, 
The death-wounded tar, who his colours defends. 

Drops a tear of regret as he dying remembers 

How bless'd was his home with — wife, children, and frieiuls 

The soldier, whose deeds live immortal in story, 

AMiom duty to far-distant latitudes sends. 
With transport would barter old ages of gloiy 

For one happy day with — wife, children, and friends. 

Though spice-breathing gales on his caravan hover, 
Though for him Arabia's fragrance ascends, 

The merchant still thinks of the woodbines that cover 

The bower where he sat with — wife, children, and friends. 

109 



WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS. 

The day-spring of youth still unclouded by sorrow, 

Alone on itself for enjoyment depends ; 
But drear is the twilight of age, if it borrow 

No warmth from the smile of — wife, children, and friend?^ 

Let the breath of renown ever freshen and nourish 
The laurel Avhich o'er the dead favourite bends ; 

O'er me wave the willow, and long may it flourish, 
Bedewed with the tears of — wife, children, and friends. 

Let us drink*, for my song, growing graver and graver, 

To subjects too solemn insensibly tends ; 
Let us drink, pledge me high, love and virtue shall flavour 

The glass which I fill to — wife, childi-en, and friends. 



110 



BYEON. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



My hair is grey, but not with years : 

Nor grew it white 

In a single night, 
As men's have grown from sudden fears: 
My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil. 

But rusted with a vile repose, 
For they have been a dungeon's spoil, 

And mine has been the fate of those 
To whom the goodly earth and air 
Are bann'd, and barr'd — forbidden fare; 
•But this was for my father's faith 
I suffer'd chains and courted death ; 
That father perish'd at the stake 
For tenets he would not forsakej 
And for the same his lineal race 
In darkness found a dwelling-place. 
We were seven — who now are one. 

Six in youth, and one in age, 
Finish'd as they had begun, 

Proud of Persecution's rage ; 
One in fire, and two in field. 
Their belief with blood have seal'd ; 
Dying as their father died, 
For the God their foes denied: 
Three were in a dungeon cast. 
Of whom this wreck is left the last. 
HI 



THE PKISONER OF CHILLON. 

There are seven pillars of Gothic mould, 
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old; 
There are seven columns, massy and grey. 
Dim with a dull imprison'd ray, — 
A sunbeam which hath lost its way, 
And through the crevice and the cleft 
Of the thick wall is fallen and left. 
Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 
Like a marsh's meteor lamp : 
And in each pillar there is a ring. 

And in each ring there is a chain ; — 
That iron is a cankering thing. 

For in these limbs its teeth remain, 
With marks that -will not wear away. 
Till I have done AA'itli this new day, 
AYhich now is painful to these eyes. 
Which have not seen the sun so rise 
For years — I cannot count them o'er ; 
I lost their long and heavy score 
When my last brother droop'd and died. 
And I lay living by his side. 



They chain'd us each to a column stone, 
And we were three — yet, each alone ; 
We could not move a single pace, 
We could not see each other's face, 
But with that pale and livid light 
That made us strangers in our sight ; 
And thus, together — ^yet apart, 
Fetter'd in hand, but join'd in heart, 
'TAvas still some solace, in the dearth 
Of the pure elements of earth. 
To hearken to each other's speech, 
And each turn comforter to each, 
With some new hope, or legend old, 
Or song heroically bold ; 
112 




But even these at length grew cold. 
Our voices took a dreary tone, 
An echo of the dungeon stone, 

A grathig sound — not full and free, 
113 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 

As they of yore Avere wont to be 
It might be foncy — but to me 
They never sounded like our own. 



I was the eldest of the three, 

And to uphold and cheer the rest 
I ought to do — and did — my best ; 
And each did well in his degree. 

The youngest, whom my father loved 
Because our mother's brow was given 
To him — with eyes as blue as heaven, — 

For him my soul was sorely moved : 
And truly might it be distrest 
To see such bird in such a nest ; 
For he was beautiful as day — 
(^Vhen day was beautiful to me 
As to young eagles, being free) — 
A polar day, which AA-ill not see 
A sunset till its summer's gone, 

Its sleepless summer of long light, 
The snow-clad offspring of the sun : 

And thus he was as pure and bright, 
And in his natural spirit gay, 
With tears for nought but others' ills. 
And then they flow'd like mountain rills, 
Unless he could assuage the woe 
"NMiich he abhorr'd to view below. 



The other was as pure of mind. 
But form'd to combat with his kind ; 
Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
AYlnch 'gainst the AAorld in Avar had stood. 
And perish' d in the foremost rank 

With joy : but not in chains to pine : 
His spirit wither'd with their clank ; 
lU 



BYRON. 

I saw it silently decline — 

And so, perchance, in sooth, did mine : 
But yet I forced it on to cheer 
Those relics of a home so dear. 
Pie was a hunter of the hills. 

Had folio w'd there the deer and wolf; 

To him this dungeon was a gulf, 
And fetter d feet the worst of ills. 



Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls : 
A thousand feet in depth below 
Its massy waters meet and flow ; 
Thus much the fathom-line was sent 
From Chillon's snow-white battlement, 

Which round about the wave enthrals : 
A double dungeon wall and wave 
Have made — and like a lining grave. 
Below the surface of the lake 
The dark vault lies wherein we lay, — 
We heard it ripple night and day; 

Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd ; 
And I have felt the wintei"'s spray 
Wash through the bars when winds were high 
And wanton in the happy sky; 

And then the very rock hath rock'd, 

And I have felt it shake, vmshock'd, 
Because I could have smiled to see 
The death that would have set me free. 



I said my nearer brother pin'd, 
I said his mighty heart declin'd ; 
He loath'd and put away his food ; 
It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, 
For we were used to hunter's fare, 
And for the like had little care : 
115 



THE PRISONER OF CIIILLON. 

The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
Was changed for water from the moat, 
Our bread was such as captive's tears 
Have moisten'd many a thousand years, 
Since man first pent his fellow-men 
Like brutes within an iron den ; — 
But what were these to us or him? 
These wasted not his heart, or limb. 
My brother's soul was of that mould 
Which in a palace had grown cold, 
Had his free breathing been denied 
The range of the steep mountain's side. 
But Avhy delay the truth? — He died. 
I saw, and could not hold his head. 
Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead, — 
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain. 
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
He died — and they iinlock'd his chain, 
And scoop'd for him a shallow grave 
Even from the cold earth of our cave. 
I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay 
His corse in dust whereon the day 
Might shine — it was a foolish thought, 
But then within my brain it A\TOught, 
That even in death his freeborn breast 
In such a dungeon could not rest. 
I might have spared aiiy idle prayer — 
Tliey coldly laugh' d — and laid him there : 
The fiat and tiu'fiess earth above 
The being we so much did love. 
His empty chain above it leant. 
Such murder's fitting monument ! 



l)Ut he, the favourite and the flower, 
Most cherish'd since his natal hour. 
His mother's image in fair face, 
IIG 



BYRON. 

The infant love of all his i-ace, 
His martyr'd father's dearest thought. 
My latest care, for whom I sought 
To hoard my life, that his might bo 
Less wretched now, and one day free ; 
He too, Avho yet had held, untir'd, 
A spirit natural or inspir'd. 
Pie, too, was struck, and day by day 
Was withei''d on the stalk away. 
Oh, God ! it is a fearful thing 
To see the human soid take wing 
In any shape, in any mood : — 
I've seen it rushing forth in blood, 
I've seen it on the breaking ocean 
Strive mtli a s\voln convulsive motion, 
I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 
Of Sin delirious with its dread : 
But these were horrors — this was woe 
Unmix'd with such — but sure and slow : 
He faded, and so calm and meek. 
So softly Avorn, so sweetly weak. 
So tearless, yet so tender — kind. 
And griev'd for those lie left beliind ; 
With all the while a cheek whose bloom 
Was as a mockery of the tomb, 
Whose tints as gently sunk away 
As a departing rainbow's ray — 
An eye of most transparent light. 
That almost made the dungeon l^right. 
And not a Avord of murmur — not 
A groan o'er his untimely lot, — 
A little talk of better days, 
A little hope — my own to raise. 
For I was sunk in silence — lost 
In this last loss, of all the most; 
And then the sighs he would suppress 
Of fainting nature's feebleness, 
117 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 

More slowly drawn, grew less and less : 

I listen'd, but I could not hear — 

I call'd, for I was wild with fear ; 

I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread 

AYould not be thus admonished ; 

I call'd, and thought I heard a sound — 

I burst my chain with one strong bound, 

And rush'd to him : I found him not ; 

/ only stirr'd in this black spot, 

/ only liv'd — / only drew 

The accursed breath of dungeon dew; 

The last — the sole — the dearest link 

Between me and the eternal brink, 

"\Yliich bound me to my failing race, 

Was broken in this fatal place. 

One on the eartli, and one beneath — 

My brothers — both had ceas'd to breathe : 

I took that hand which lay so still, 

Alas ! my own Avas full as chill ; 

I had not strength to stir, or strive. 

But felt that I was still alive — 

A frantic feeling, when we know 

That what we love shall ne'er be so. 

I know not why 

I could not die ; 
I had no earthly hope — but faith, 
And that forbade a selfish death. 



^^^^at next befel me then and there 
I know not well — I never knew ; 
First came the loss of light, and air. 

And then of darkness too : 
I had no thought, no feeling — none — 
Among the stones I stood a stone. 
And was, scarce conscious what I wist, 
As shrubless crags Avithin the mist ; 
118 



BYRON. 

For all was blank, and bleak, and grey: 
It was not niglit — it was not day, 
It was not even the dungeon-light, 
So hateful to my heavy sight. 
But vacancy absorbing space, 
And fixedness — without a place 
There were no stars — no earth — no time — 
No check — no change — no good — no crime- 
But silence, and a stirless breath 
Which neither was of life nor death ; 
A sea of stagnant idleness. 
Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless ! 

A light bruke in upon my brain — 

It Avas the carol of a bu'd ; 
It ceas'd, and then it came again, 

The sweetest song ear ever heard; 
And mine was thankful till my eyes 
Kan over with the glad surprise, 
And they that moment could not see 
I was the mate of misery ; 
But then by dull degrees came back 
My senses to theu' wonted track : 
I saw the dungeon walls and floor 
Close slowly round me as before, 
I saw the glimmer of the sun 
Creeping as it before had done, 
But through the crevice where it came 
That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame 

And tamer than upon the tree ; 
A lovely bird with azure wings. 
And song that said a thousand things, 

And seem'd to say them all for me I 
I never saw its like before, 
I ne'er shall see its likeness more : 
It seem'd, like me, to want a mate, 
But was not half so desolate, 
119 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 

And it was come to love me when 
None lived to love me so again, 
And cheering from my dungeon's brink, 
Had brought me back to feel and think. 
I know not if it late Avere free, 

Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 
But knowing well captivity, 

Sweet bird ! I could not wish for thine ! 
Or if it were, in winged guise, 
A visitant from Paradise ; 

For — Heaven forgive that thought! — the while 
^\Tiich made me both to weep and smile, 
I sometimes deem'd that it might be 
My brother's soul come down to me ; 
But then at last away it flew. 
And then 'twas mortal — well I knew. 
For he Avould never thus have flown. 
And left me twice so doubly lone, — 
Lone — as the corse within its shroud ; 
Lone — as a solitary cloud, 

A single cloud on a summer day, 
While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
A frown upon the atmosphere, 
That hath no business to appear 

When skies are blue, and earth is gay. 



A kind of change came in my fate. 
My keepers grew compassionate ; 
I know not what had made them so. 
They were inur'd to sights of woe. 
But so it was : — my broken chain 
With links nnfasten'd did remain. 
And it was liberty to stride 
Along my cell from side to side. 
And up and down, and then atliAvart, 
And tread it over every part ; 
120 



BYRON. 

And round the pillars one by one, 
Returning where my walk begun, 
Avoiding only, as I trod, 
My brothers' graves without a sod ; 
For if I thought with heedless tread 
My step profan'd their lowly bed. 
My breath came gaspingly and thick, 
And my crush'd heart fell blind and 



1 made a footing in the wall, 

It was not therefrom to escape, 
For I had buried one and all. 

Who loved me in a human shape ; 
And the Avhole earth would henceforth be 
A wider prison unto me : 
No child — no sire — no kin had I, 
No partner in my misery. 
I thought of this, and I was glad. 
For thought of them had made me mad ; 
But I was curious to ascend 
To my barr'd windows, and to bend 
Once more, iipon the mountains high, 
The quiet of a loving eye. 



I saw them — and they were the same, 
They were not changed like me in frame ; 
I saw their thousand years of snow 
On high — their wide long lake below, 
And the blue Rhone in fullest flow ; 
I heard the torrents leap and gush 
O'er channell'd rock and broken busli ; 
I saw the white-wall'd distant town. 
And whiter sails go skimming down ; 
And then there was a little isle, 
Which in my very face did smile. 
121 



THE PKISONER OF CHILLON. 

The only one in view ; 
A small green isle, it seeni'd no more, 
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor. 
But in it there were three tall trees, 
And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, 
And by it there were waters flowing, 
And on it there were young flowers growing, 

Of gentle breath and hue. 
The fish swam by the castle wall, 
And they seem'd joyous each and all ; 
The eagle rode the rising blast, 
Methought he never flew so fast 
As then to me he seem'd to fly; 
And then new tears came in my eye, 
And I felt troubled — and would fain 
I had not left my recent chain ; 
And when I did descend again, 
The darkness of my dim abode 
Fell on me as a heavy load ; 
It was as is a new-dug grave. 
Closing o'er one we sought to save, — 
And yet my glance, too much opprest. 
Had almost need of such a rest. 



It might be months, or years, or days, — 

I kept no count — I took no note ; 
I had no hope my eyes to raise, 

And clear them of their dreary mote ; — 
At last men came to set me free, 

I ask'd not A\'hy, and reck'd not where : 
It was at length the same to me, 
Fetter'd or fetterless to be, * 

I Icarn'd to love despair. 
And thus, when they appear'd at last, 
And all my bonds aside were cast, 
These heavy walls to me had grown 
122 



BYEON. 

A hermitage — and all my owii! 
And half I felt as they were come 
To tear me from a second home : 
With spiders I had friendship made, 
And watch'd them in their sullen trade, 
Had seen the mice by moonlight play. 
And why should I feel less than they? 
We were all inmates of one place. 
And I, the monarch of each race, 
Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell ! 
In quiet we had learn'd to dwell — 
My very chains and I greAV friends. 
So much a long communion tends 
To make us what Ave are : — even I 
Regain'd my freedom with a sigh. 



THE DREAM. 



Our life is twofold : Sleep hath its own world, 
A boundary between the things misnam'd 
Death and existence : Sleep hath its own world, 
And a vdde realm of wild reality. 
And dreams in their development have breath. 
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; 
They leave a weight vipon our waking thoughts, 
They take a weight from off our waking toils, 
They do divide our being; they become 
A portion of ourselves as of our time, 
And look like heralds of eternity; 
They pass like spirits of the past — they speak 
Like sibyls of the future ; they have power — 

123 



THE DREAM. 

The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; 
They make us what Ave were not — what they will, 
And shake us with the vision that's gone by, 
The dread of vanish'd shadows — Are they so? 
Is not the past all shadow '? AVhat are they ? 
Creations of the mind? — The mind can make 
Substance, and people planets of its own 
With beings brighter than have been, and give 
A breath to forms that can outlive all flesh. 
I would recall a vision -which 1 dream' d 
Perchance in sleep — for in itself a thought, 
A slumbering thought, is capable of years. 
And curdles a long life into one hour. 



I saw two beings in the hues of youth 
Standing iipon a hill, a gentle hill, 
Green and of mild declivity, the last 
As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such, 
Save that there was no sea to lave its base. 
But a most living landscape, and the wave 
Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men 
Scattei*'d at intervals, and wreathing smoke 
Arising from such rustic roofs ; — the hill 
Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem 
Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd 
Not by the sport of nature, but of man : 
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there 
Gazing — the one on all that was beneath, 
Fair as herself — but the boy gazed on her ; 
And both were young, and one was beautiful : 
And both were young — yet not alike in youth. 
As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge, 
The maid was on the eve of womanhood ; 
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart 
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 
There was but one beloved face on earth. 

124 




And that was shining on him ; he had look'd 
Upon it till it could not pass away ; 
He had no breath, no being, but in hers : 
She was his voice ; he did not speak to her, 
But trembled on her words: she was his sight. 
125 



THE DEEAM. 

For his eye foUow'cl hers, and saw Avith hers, 

Which colour'd all his objects : — he had ceas'd 

To live within himself; she was his life. 

The ocean to the river of his thoughts. 

Which terminated all ; upon a tone, 

A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, 

And his cheek change tempestuously — his heart 

Unknowing of its cause of agony. 

But she in these fond feelings had no share : 

Her sighs were not for him; to her he was 

Even as a brother — but no more ; 'twas much. 

For brotherless she was, save in the name 

Her infant friendship had bestow'd ou him ; 

Herself the solitary scion left 

Of a time-honour'd race. It was a name 

Which pleas'd him, and yet pleas'd him not — and why? 

Time taught him a deep answer — when she loved 

Another ; even 7i07v she loved another, 

And on the summit of that hill she stood, 

Looking afar if yet her lover's steed 

Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
There was an ancient mansion, and before 
Its walls there was a steed caparison'd : 
Within an antique Oratory stood 
The Boy of whom I spake ; he was alone. 
And pale, and pacing to and fro: anon 
He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced 
Words Avhich I could not guess of; then he lean'd 
His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 'twere 
With a convulsion — then arose again. 
And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear 
What he had written, but he shed no tears. 
And he did calm himself, and fix his brow 
Into a kind of quiet : as he paus'd, 

126 



BYRON. 

The Lady of his love re-enter'd there ; 

She was serene and smiling then, and yet 

She knew she was by him belov'd, — she kneAV, 

For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart 

Was darken'd with her shadow, and she saw 

That he was wretched, but she saw not all. 

He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 

He took her hand ; a moment o'er his face 

A tablet of unutterable thoughts 

Was traced, and then it faded, as it came ; 

He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow steps 

Retir'd, but not as bidding her adieu, 

For they did part with mutual smiles ; he pass'd 

From out the massy gate of that old Hall, 

And, mounting on his steed, he went his way ; 

And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more. 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Boy was sprung to manhood : in the wilds 
Of fiery climes he made himself a home, 
And his soul drank their sunbeams : he was girt 
With strange and dusky aspects ; he was not 
Himself like what he had been ; on the sea 
And on the shore he was a wanderer; 
There was a mass of many images 
Crowded like waves upon me, but he was 
A part of all ; and in the last he lay 
Reposing from the noontide sultriness, 
Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade 
Of ruin'd walls that had surviv'd the names 
Of those who rear'd them ; by his sleeping side 
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds 
Were fasten'd near a fountain ; and a man 
Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while, 
While many of his tribe slumber'd around : 
And they were canopied by the blue sky, 

127 



THE DREAM. 

S(i cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, 
That God alone Avas to be seeu in heaven. 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 

The Lady of his love was wed with one 

Who did not love her better : — in her home, 

A thousand leagues from his, — her native home, 

She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy, 

Daughters and sons of Beauty, — but behold ! 

Upon her face there was the tint of grief. 

The settled shadow of an inward strife, 

And an vmquiet drooping of the eye. 

As if its lid were charg'd with unshed tears. 

^Miat could her grief be ? — She had all she loved. 

And he who had so loved her Avas not there 

To trouble with bad hopes, or evil Avish, 

Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts. 

What could her grief be? She had loved him not, 

Not given him cause to deem himself beloved, 

Nor could he be a part of that Avhich prey'd 

Upon her mind — a spectre of the past. 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Wand'rer was return'd. — I saw him stand 
Before an altar — with a gentle bride ; 
Her face Avas fair, but Avas not that Avhich made 
The starlight of his boyhood ; — as he stood 
Even at the altar, o'er his broAv there came 
The self-same aspect, and the quivering shock 
That in the antique Oratory shook 
His bosom in its solitude ; and then — 
As in that hour — a moment o'er his face 
The tablet of unutterable thoughts 
Was traced — and then it faded as it came, 
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 

128 



BYRON. 

The fitting vows, but heard not liis own Avords, 

And all things reel'd around him ; he could see 

Not that which was, nor that which should have been- 

But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall, 

And the remember'd chambers, and the place, 

The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, — 

All things pertaining to that place and hour, 

And her who was his destiny, came back 

And thrust themselves between him and the light : 

What business had they there at such a time? 



A change came o'er the S[)irit of my dream. 
• The Lady of his love ; — oh ! she was changed. 
As by the sickness of the soul ; her mind 
Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes, 
They had not their own lustre, but the look 
^V^hich is not of the earth ; she was become 
The queen of a fxntastic realm ; her thoughts 
Were combinations of disjointed things ; 
.Vnd forms impalpable and unperceiv'd 
Of others' sight familiar Avcre to hers. 
And this the world calls phrenzy ; but the wise 
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance 
Of melancholy is a fearful gift ; 
What is it but the telescope of truth ? 
Which strips the distance of its fantasies, 
.\nd brings life near in utter nakedness, 
Making the cold reality too real ! 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Wand'rer was alone as heretofore ; 
The beings which surrounded him were gone, 
Or were at war with him ; he was a mark 
For blight and desolation, compass'd round 
With Hatred and Contention ; Pain Avas mix'd 

129 



THE DREAM. 

In all wliieh was serv'd up to him, until, 

Like to the Pontic monarch of old clays, 

He fed on poisons, and they had no power, 

But were a kind of nutriment; he lived 

Through that which had been death to many men. 

And made him friends of mountains: Avith the stars 

And the quick Spirit of the Universe 

He held his dialogues ; and they did teach 

To him the magic of their mysteries. 

To him the book of Night was open'd wide, 

And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd 

A marvel and a secret. Be it so. 



My dream was past ; it had no further change. 

It was of a strange order, that the doom 

Of these two creatures should be thus traced out 

Almost like a reality — the one 

To end in madness — both in misery. 



130 




SHELLEY. 



WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES. 



Tim sun is warm, the sky is clear, 

The waves are dancing fast and briiilit, 
Blue isles and snowy mountains -wear 
131 



WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES. 

The purple noon's transparent light. 
The breath of the moist earth is light 

Around its unexpanded buds ; 
Like many a voice of one delight, 

The Avinds, the bird?, the ocean floods, 
The city's voice itself is soft, like Solitude's. 

I see the deep's untrampled floor 

AVith green and purple sea-weeds strown ; 
I see the waves upon the shore, 

Like light dissolv'd in star-showers, thrown- 
I sit upon the sands alone, 

The lightning of the noon-tide ocean 
Is flashing round me, and a tone 

Arises from its measur'd motion. 
How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion. 

Alas ! I have nor hope nor health, 

Nor peace within, nor calm around, 
Nor that content, surpassing wealth. 

The sage in meditation found. 
And walk'd Avith inward glory crown'd — 

Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. 
Others I see whom these surround — 

Smiling they live, and call life pleasure ; — 
To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. 

Yet now despair itself is mild. 

Even as the winds and waters are ; 
I could lie down like a tired child, 

And weep away the life of care 
Which I have borne, and yet must bear. 

Till death, like sleep, might steal on mc 
And I might feel in the warm air 

My cheek grow wet, and hear the sea 
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony- 
132 



SHELLEY. 

Some might lament that I was cold, 

As I, when this sweet day is gone, 
Which my lost heart, too soon grown old, 

Insults with this untimely moan : — 
They might lament, — for I am one 

Whom men love not — and yet regret ; 
Unlike this day, which, when the sun 

Shall on its stainless glory set. 
Will linger, though enjoy' d, like joy in memory yet. 



TO NIGHT. 



Sanifti.y walk over the western Avave, 

Spirit of Night ! 
Out of the misty eastern cave. 
Where, all the long and lone daylight, 
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear, 
Which make thee terrible and dear, — 

Swift be thy flight! 

Wrap thy form in a mantle grey, 

Star-inwrought ! 
Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day, 
Kiss her until she be wearied out. 
Then wander o'er city, and sea, and sand. 
Touching all with thine opiate wand — 

Come, long-sought ! 

When I arose and saw the Dawn, 

I sigh'd for thee ; 
When light i-ode hiuh, and the dew was goiie, 



TO NIGHT. 

And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, 
And the weary Day turn'd to his rest, 
Lingering like an unloved guest, 
I sigh'd for thee. 

Thy brother Death came, and cried, 

Wouldst thou me ? 
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, 

Murmur'd like a noon-tide bee, 
Shall I nestle near thy side? 
Wouldst thou me? And I replied, 

No, not thee ! 

Death will come when thou art dead. 

Soon, too soon — 
Sleep wUl come when thou art fled: 
Of neither would I ask the boon, 
I ask of thee, beloved Night — 
Swift be thine approaching flight, 

Come soon, — soon! 



SPRING. 



O Spring! of hope, and love, and youth, and gladness. 
IMiite-wing'd emblem! brightest, best, and fairest! 
Whence comest thou, when with dark Winter's sadness 
The tears that fade in sunny smiles thou shax'est ? 
Sister of joy ! thou art the child who Avearest 
Thy mother's dying smile, tender and sweet; 
Thy mother Autumn, for whose grave thou bearest 
Fresh flowers, and beams like flowers, with gentle feet 
Disturbing not the leaves which are her winding-sheet. 

134 




KEATS. 



ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 



INIy heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 
Mv sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, 
135 



ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 

Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk : 
'Tis not through enxj of thy hajjpy lot, 
But being too happy in thy happiness, — 
That thou, light-wingtd Dryad of the trees, 
In some melodious plot 
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 



O for a draught of vintage, that hath been 

Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth. 
Tasting of Flora and the country-green, 

Dance, and Provencal song, and sun-burnt mii'th ! 
for a beaker full of the warm South, 
Full of the true, tlie blushful Hippocrene, 
AVith beaded bubbles Avinking at the brim, 
And purple-stained mouth ! 
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen. 
And with thee fade away into the forest dim : 

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 

"What thou among the leaves hast never known, 
The weariness, the fever, and the fret. 

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan, 
A^'^here palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs. 

Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies 
"Where but to think is to be full of sorrow, 
And leaden-eyed despairs ; 
"Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes. 
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morro\\-. 

Away! away! for I will fly to thee, 
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, 

But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : 
136 



KEATS. 

Already with thee! tender is the night, 

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, 
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays ; 
But here there is no light, 
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blo>\-n 
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy way; 



1 cannot see what flowers are at my feet, 

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs. 
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 

Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild : 
AHiite hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; 
Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves ; 
And mid-May's eldest child. 
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, 

Tlie murmurous haunt of flies on summer e^cs. 



Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time 

I have been half in love with easeful Death, 
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, 

To take into the air my quiet breath; 
Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 
To cease upon the midnight with no pain. 
While thou art pouring forth thy soid abroad 
In such an ecstasy ! 
Still Avouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain 
To thy high requiem become a sod. 



Tiiou wast not born for death, immortal Bird I 
No hungry generations tread thee down ; 

The voice I hear this passing night was heard 
In ancient days by emperor and clown : 



OUE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 

Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 

Tlu-ough the sad heart of Ruth, Avhen, sick for honit". 
She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; 
The same that ofttimes hath 
Charm' d magic casements, opening on the foam 
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 



Forlorn! the very word is like a bell 

To toll me back from thee to my sole self! 
Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades 
Past the near meadows, over the still stream, 
Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep 
In the next valley-glades : 
"Was it a vision, or a waking dream? 

Fled is that music: — do I wake or sleo]) ' 




138 




COLEPJDGE. 



LOVE. 



All thoughts, all passions, all delights. 
Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 
13U 



LOVE. 

All are but ministers of Love, 
And feed his sacred flame. 

Oft in iny waking dreams do I 
Live o'er again that happy hour, 
"When midway on the mount I lay 
Beside the ruin'd tower. 

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, 
Had blended with the lights of eve ; 
And she was there, my hope, my joy, 
My own dear Genevieve ! 

She lean'd against the armed man. 
The statue of the armed knight ; 
She stood and listen' d to my lay 
Amid the lingering light. 

Few sorrows hath she of her own. 

My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! 

She loves me best, whene'er I sing 

The songs that make her grieve. 

I played a soft and doleful air, 
I sang an old and moving story — 
An old rude song that suited well 
That ruin wild and hoary. 

She listen'd Avith a flitting blush, 
With downcast eyes, and modest grace ; 
For well she knew, I could not choose 
But gaze upon her face. 

I told her of the Knight that wore 
Upon his shield a burning brand ; 
And that for ten long years he Avooed 
The Lady of the Land. 
140 



COLERIDGE. 

I told her how he pined: and, ah! 
The low, the deep, the pleading tone, 
With which I sang another's love, 
Interpreted my own. 

She listen'd with a flitting blush, 
With downcast eyes, and modest grace ; 
And she forgave me that I gazed 
Too fondly on her face! 

But when I told the cruel scorn 
Which crazed this bold and lovely Knight, 
And that he cross'd the mountain-woods, 
Nor rested day nor night; 

That sometimes from the savage den, 
And sometimes from the darksome shade, 
And sometimes starting up at once 
In green and sunny glade, — 

There came, and look'd him in the face, 
An angel beautiful and bright; 
And that he knew it was a Fiend, 
This miserable Knight ! 

And that, unknowing what he did. 
He leaped amid a murderous band. 
And saved from outrage worse than death 
The Lady of the Land; 

And how she Avept and clasp'd his knees, 
And how she tended him in vain — 
And ever strove to expiate 

The scorn that crazed his brain ; 

And that she nursed him in a cave ; 
And how his madness went awa)'' 
When on the yellow forest-leaves 
A dying man he lay ; 
141 



LOVE. 

His (lying words — but when I reaclicd 
That tcnderest strain of all the ditly. 
My faltering voice and pausing harj) 
Disturbed her soul with pity! 

All impulses of soul and sense 
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve, 
The music and the doleful tale, 
The rich and balmy eve ; 

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, 
An undisdnguishable throng ; 
And gentle wishes long subdued, 
Subdued and cherished long! 

She wept with jiity and delight, 
She blushed with love and virgin •■^lianu' 
And, like the murmur of a dream, 
I heard her breathe my name. 

Her bosom heaved — she stept aside ; 
As conscious of my look, she stept — 
Then suddenly, with timorous eye 
She fled to me and Avept. 

She half inclosed me Avith her arms, 
She pressed me with a meek embrace ; 
And, bending back her head, looked uj) 
And gazed upon my face. 

'Twas partly love, and partly foar. 
And partly 'twas a bashful art 
That I might rather feel, than see. 
The swelling of her heart. 

I calm'd her fears ; juid she was calm. 
And told her love with virgin pride ; 
And so I won my Genevieve, 
My bright and beauteous IJride ! 
142 




WOUDSWOHTH. 
THE GLORY OF IMAGINATION. 

The Shepherd-lad, that in the sunshine carves, 
On the green tnrf, a dial — to divide 
The silent hours; and who to that report 
Can portion out his pleasures, and adapt, 
Throughout a long and lonely summer's day, 
His round of pastoral duties, is not left 
With less intelligence for moral things 
Of gravest import. Early he perceives. 
Within himself, a measure and a rule, 
Which to the sun of truth he can apply, 
. That shines for him, and shines for all niankuul. 
Experience daily fixing his regards 



A CLOUD PICTUIIE. 

On Nature's wants, he knows how few they arc. 

And where they lie, how answ^i-'d and ap peas' d : 

This knowledge ample recompense affords 

For manifold privations ; he refers 

His notions to this standard ; on this rock 

Kests his desires ; and hence, in after life, 

Soul-strengthening patience and sublime content. 

Imagination — not permitted here 

To waste her powers, as in the worldling's mind. 

On fickle pleasures, and superfluous caros. 

And trivial ostentation — is left free 

And puissant to range the solemn walks 

Of time and nature, girded by a zone 

That, Avhile it binds, invigorates and supports. 

Acknowledge, then, that Avhether by the side 

Of his poor hut, or on the mountain-top. 

Or in the cultur'd field, a Man so bred 

(Take from him what you will upon the score 

Of ignorance or illusion) lives and breathes 

For noble purposes of mind : his heart 

Beats to tli' heroic song of ancient days ; 

His eye distinguishes, his soul creates. 



A CLOUD PICTURE. 

So was he lifted gently from the ground, 
And with their freight homeward the shepherds mov'd 
Through the dull mist, I following — when a step. 
A single step, that freed me from the skirts 
Of the blind vapour, open'd to my view 
Glory beyond all glory ever seen 
l>y waking sense, or by the dreaming soul ! 
Th' appearance, instantaneously disclos'd, 

144 



WORDSWORTH. 

Was of a mighty city — boldly say 
A wilderness of building, sinking fax- 
And self-withdrawn into a boundless depth, 
Far sinking into splendour — without end ! 
Fabric it seem'd of diamond and of gold, 
With alabaster domes and silver spires, 
And blazing terrace upon terrace, high 
I 'plifted : here, serene pavilions bright. 
In avenues disposed ; there, towei'S begirt 
With battlements that on their restless fronts 
Boi'e stars — illumination of all gems ! 
By earthly nature had th' effect been Avrought 
Upon the dark materials of the storm 
Now pacified ; on them, and on the coves 
And mountain-steeps and summits, whereunto 
The vapours had receded, taking there 
Their station under a cerulean sky. 
Oh, 'twas an unimaginable sight! — 
Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks, and emerald turf. 
Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire sky, 
Confus'd, commingled, mutually inflam'd, 
Molten together, and composing thus, 
Each lost in each, that marvellous arra}' 
Of temple, palace, citadel, and huge 
Fantastic pomp of structure Avithout name, 
In fleecy folds voluminous enwrapp'd. 
Eight in the midst, where interspace appear'd 
Of open court, an object like a throne 
lender a shining canopy of state 
Stood fix'd ; and fix'd resemblances were seen 
To implements of ordinaiy use. 
But vast in size, in substance glorified ; 
Such as by HebrcAV Prophets were beheld 
In vision — forms uncouth of mightiest power 
For admiration and mysterious awe. 
This little Vale, a dwelling-place of Man, 
Lay low beneath my feet ; 'twas visible — 

145 



DION. 

I saw not, but I felt that it was there. 

That which I saw was the reveal'd abode 

Of Spirits in beatitude : my heart 

Swell'd in my breast. — " 1 have" been dead," I cried, 

" And now I live ! Oh ! wherefore do I live ?" 

And with that pang I pray'd to be no more ! 



DION. 



(SEE PLUTARCH.) 



Serene, and fitted to embrace, 
Where'er he turn'd, a swan-like grace 
Of haughtiness Avitliout pretence. 
And to unfold a still magnificence. 
Was princely Dion, in the power 
And beauty of his happier hour. 
And what pure homage then did wait 
On Dion's virtues, Avhile the lunar beam 
Of Plato's genius, from its lofty sphere. 
Fell round him in tlie grove of Academe, 
Softening their inbred dignity austere — 

That he, not too elate 

With self-sufficing solitude. 
But with majestic lowliness endued, 
Might in the universal bosom reign. 
And from affectionate observance gain 
Help, under every change of adverse fate. 

Five thousand warriors — O the rapturous day! 
Fach crown'd with flowers, and arm'd with spear and sliiekl. 
Or ruder weapon which their course might yield, 
To Syracuse advance in bright array. 

14G 



WORDSWORTH. 

Who leads them on ? The anxious people see 

Long-exiled Dion marching at their head ; 

He also crown'd Avitli flowers of Sicily, 

And in a white, far-beaming corslet clad! 

Pure transport, undisturb'd by doubt or fear, 

The gazers feel ; and, rushing to the plain. 

Salute those strangers as a holy train, 

Or blest procession (to the Immortals dear), 

That brought their precious liberty again. 

Lo ! when the gates are enter'd, on each hand, 

Down the long street, rich goblets fill'd with wine 

In seemly order stand. 
On tables set, as if for rites divine; — 
And, as the great Deliverer marches by, 
He looks on festal ground with fruits bestrown ; 
And flowers are on his person thrown 

In boundless prodigality ; 
Nor doth the general voice abstain from prayer. 
Invoking Dion's tutelary care, 
As if a very Deity he were ! 

Mourn, hills and groves of Attica! — and mourn 
Ilissus, bending o'er thy classic urn ! 
Mourn, and lament for him whose spirit dreads 
Your once sweet memory, studious walks, and shades ! 
For him who to divinity aspired. 
Not on the breath of popular applause. 
But through dependence on the sacred laws 
Framed in the schools where Wisdom dwelt retired. 
Intent to trace th' ideal path of right 

(More fair than heaven's broad causeway paved Avith stars) 
Which Dion learn'd to measure with sublime delight ; 
But he hath overleap'd th' eternal bars ; 
And, following guides whose craft holds no consent 
With aught that breathes th' ethereal element. 
Hath stain'd the robes of civil power with blood 
Unjustly shed, though for the public good. 

147 



DION. 

Whence doubts that came too late, and wishes vain, 

Hollow excuses, and triumphant pain ; 

And oft his cogitations sink as low 

As, through the abysses of a joyless heart, 

The heaviest plummet of despair can go — 

But whence that sudden check "? that fearful start ? 

He hears an uncouth sound — 

Anon his lifted eyes 
Saw, at a long-drawn gallery's dusky bound, 
A Shape of more than mortal size 
And hideous aspect, stalking round and round ! 

A woman's garb the phantom wore. 

And swiftly swept the marble floor — 

Like Auster whirling to and fro, 

His force on Caspian foam to try ; 
Or Boreas when he scours the snow 
That skins the plains of Thessaly, 
Or when aloft on Mienalus he stops 
His flight, 'mid eddying pine-tree tops ! 

So, but from toil less sign of profit reaping, 
The sullen Spectre to her purpose bow'd, 

Sweeping — vehemently sweeping — 
No pause admitted, no design avow'd ! 
"Avaunt, inexplicable guest! avaunt!" 
Esclaim'd the Chieftain — "let me rather see 
The coronal that coiling vipers make ; 
The torch that flames with many a lurid flake, 
And the long train of doleful pagoantr}^ 
Which they behold, whom vengeful P^iries haunt ; 
^\Tio, w^hile they struggle from the scourge to flee. 
Move where the blasted soil is not uuAvorn, 
And, in their anguish, bear Avhat other minds have borne!" 

liut Shapes that come not at an earthly call, 
Will not depart when mortal voices bid ; 
Lords of the visionary eye, whose lid, 

148 



WORDSWORTH. 

Once raised, remains aghast, and will not fall ! 
Ye gods, thought he, that servile Implement 

Obeys a mystical intent ! 
Your Minister would brush away 
The spots that to my soul adhere; 
But should She labour night and day, 
They will not, cannot disappear ; 
Whence angry perturbations, — and that look 
Wliich no philosophy can brook ! 

Ill-fated Chief! there are whose hopes are built 

Upon the ruins of thy glorious name ; 

Who, through the portal of one moment's guilt, 

Pursue thee with their deadly aim ! 

matchless perfidy ! portentous lust 

Of monstrous crime ! that horror-striking blade, 

Drawn in defiance of the gods, hath laid 

The noble Syracusan low in dust! 

Shudder'd the walls — the marble city wept — 

And sylvan places heav'd a pensive sigh ; 

But in calm peace th' appointed Victim slept. 

As he had fall'n in magnanimity; 

Of sjiirit too capacious to require 

That Destiny her course should change ; too just 

To his own native greatness to desire 

That wretched boon, days lengthen'd by mistrust. 

So were the hopeless troubles, that involved 

The soul of Dion, instantly dissolved. 

Ileleas'd from life, and cares of princely state, 

He left this moral grafted on his Fate : — 

"Him only pleasure leads, and peace attends, 

Him, only him, the shield of Jove defends, 

Wliose means are fair and spotless as his ends." 



149 



INCIDENT AT BRUGES. 



INCIDENT AT BRUGES. 

In Bruges toAvn is many a street 

Whence busy life hath fled; 
Where, without hurry, noiseless feet 

The grass-grown pavement tread. 
There heard we, halting in the shade 

Flung from a convent-toAver, 
A harp that tuneful prelude made 

To a voice of thrilling power. 

The measure, simple truth to tell, 

Was fit for some gay throng ; 
Though from the same grim turret fell 

The shadow and the song. 
^Vhen silent Avere both voice and chords 

The strain seem'd doubly dear, 
Yet sad as sweet, — for English words 

Had fall'n upon the ear. 

It was a breezy hour of eve ; 

And pinnacle and spire 
QuiA'cr'd and seem'd almost to hcaAO 

Cloth'd Avith innocuous fire ; 
But, where we stood, the setting sun 

ShoAv'd little of his state ; 
And, if the glory reach'd the Nun, 

'Twas through an iron grate. 

Not always is the heart unwise. 

Nor pity idly borne, 
If even a passing Stranger sighs 

For them aa'Iio do not mourn, 
ir.o 




Sad is thy doom, self-solaced dove, 
Captive, whoe'er thou be ! 

Oh! what is beauty, what is love, 
And opening life to thee? 



Such feeling press'd upon the soul, 

A feeling sanctified 
By one soft trickling tear that stole 

From the Maiden at my side : 
Less tribute could she pay than this, 

Borne gaily o'er the sea. 
Fresh from the beauty and the bliss 

Of English liberty? 
]51 



A JEWISH FAMILY. 



A JEWISH FAMILY. 



IN A SMALL VALLEY OPPOSITE ST. GOAR, UPON THE KllINi: 



Genius of Raphael ! if thy Avings 

Might bear thee to this glen, 
With faithful memory left of things 

To pencil dear and pen, 
Thou wouldst forego the neighbouring Ehine. 

And all his majesty — 
A studious forehead to incluie 

O'er this poor family. 

The Mother — her thou must have seen, 

In spirit, ere she came 
To dwell these rifted rocks between. 

Or found on earth a name ; 
An image, too, of that sweet Boy 

Thy inspirations give — 
Of playfulness, and love, and joy, 

Predestined here, to live. 

Downcast, or shooting glances far, 

How beautiful his eyes. 
That blend the nature of the star 

With that of summer skies ! 
I speak as if of sense beguil'd ; 

Uncounted months are gone, 
Yet am I with the Jewish Child, 

That exquisite Saint John. 
152 



WORDSWORTH. 

1 see the dark-brown curls, the bro\\-, 

The smooth transparent skin, 
Eefin'd, as with intent to show 

The holiness within ; 
The grace of parting Infancy 

By blushes yet untam'd ; 
Age faithful to the mother's knee. 

Nor of her arms asham'd. 

Tavo lovely Sisters, still and sweet 

As flowers, stand side by side ; 
Their soul-subduing looks might cheat 

The Christian of his pride ; 
Such beauty hath th' Eternal pour d 

ITpon them not forlorn, 
Though of a lineage once abhorr'd, 

Nor yet redeem'd from scoi-n. 

INIysterious safeguard, that, in spite 

Of poverty and wrong. 
Doth here preserve a living light, 

From Hebrew fountains sprung ; 
That gives this ragged group to cast 

Around the dell a gleam 
Of Palestine, of glory past, 

And proud Jerusalem ! 



153 



A PORTRAIT. 



A PORTRAIT. 



She was a phantom of delight 

"NMien first she gleamed upon my sight ; 

A lovely Apparition, sent 

To be a moment's ornament ; 

Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; 

Like T-R-ilight too her dusky hair; 

But all things else about her drawn 

From May-time and the cheerful Da^Ti ; 

A dancing Shape, an Image gay, 

To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 

I saw her upon nearer view, 

A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! 

Her household motions light and free, 

And steps of virgin liberty ; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 

A Creature, not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food ; 

For transient sorrows, simple visiles, 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

And noAv I see with eye serene 
The very pulse of the machine ; 
A Being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A Traveller between life and death ; 
The reason firm, the temperate vdW, 
Endurance, foresight, strength and skill ; 
A perfect Woman, nobly planned 
To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
And yet a Spirit still, and bright 
With something of an angel light. 



154 



WORDSWOKTH. 



LUCY. 



Three years she grew in sun and shower, 
Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower 

On earth was never sown; 
This Child I to myself will take ; 
She shall be mine, and I Avill make 

A Lady of my own. 

Myself will to my darling be 

Both law and impulse: and with me 

The Girl, in rock and plain, 
In earth and heaven, in glade and boAvcr, 
Shall feel an overseeing power 

To kindle or restrain. 

She shall be sportive as the Fawn 
That wild with glee across the lawn 

Or up the mountain springs; 
And hers shall be the breathing balm, 
And hers the silence and the calm 

Of mute insensate things. 

The Floating Clouds their state shall lend 
To her ; for her the Avillow bend : 

Nor shall- she fail to see 
Even in the motions of the Stomii 
Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form 

By silent sympathy. 

The Stars of Midnight shall be dear 
To her; and she shall lean her ear 

In many a secret place 
Where Eivulets dance their wayward round, 
And beauty born of murmuring sound 

Shall pass into her face. 
155 



SONNET, 

And vital ieelings of delight 

Shall rear her form to stately height, 

Her virgin bosom swell ; 
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
While she and I together live 

Here in this happy Dell." 

Thus Nature spoke. — The woi'k was done- 
How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 

She died, and left to me 
This heath, this calm, and quiet scene ; 
The memory of what has been, 

And never more Avill be. 



SONNET 



COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, ISOS 

Eautii has not any thing to show more fair : 
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 
A sight so touching in its majesty : 
This City now doth like a garment weai" 
The beauty of the morning ; silent, bare, 
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and tenn)lcs lie- 
Open unto the fields, and to the sky ; 
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 
Never did sun more beautifully steep 
In his first .splendour valley, rock or hill ; 
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep. 
The river glideth at his own sweet will : 
Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; 
And all that mighty heart is lying still ! 



ir.G 



^ 



L A M B. 



HESTER.— A REMEMBRANCE. 



When maidens such as Hester die, 
Their place ye may not Avell supply. 
Though ye among a thousand try. 
With vain endeavour. 

A month or more hath she been dead, 
Yet cannot I by force be led 
To think upon the Avormy bed 
And her together. 

A springy motion in her gait, 
A rising step, did indicate 
01" i)ride and joy no common rate, 
Tliat flush'd her spirit — 

I know not by what name beside 
I .shall it call: — if 'twas not pride, 
It was a joy to that allied 
She did inherit. 

Her parents held the Quaker rule, 
AMiich doth the human feeling cool ; 
J^ut she was train'd in Nature's school, 
Nature had blest her. 

A A\'aking eye, a prying mind, 
A heart that stirs, is hard to bind, 
A haAvk's keen sight ye cannot blind. 
Ye could not Hester. 
157 



VERSES FOR AN ALBUM. 

My sprightly neighbour, gone before 
To that unknown and silent shore, 
Shall we not meet, as heretofore, 
Some summer morning, 

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray 
Hath struck a bliss upon the day, 
A bliss that would not go away, 
A sweet forewarnine; ? 



VERSES FOR AN ALBUM. 

Fresh clad from heaven in robes of white, 

A young probationer of light. 

Thou wert, my soul, an Album bright, 

A spotless leaf; but thought, and care, 
And friends, and foes, in foul or fair, 
Have written " strange defeature" there. 

And Time, with heaviest hand of all. 
Like that fierce writing on the Avail, 
Hath stamp'd sad dates he can't recall. 

And Error, gilding worse designs, 
Like speckled snake that strays and shines- 
Betrays his path by crooked lines. 

My scalded eyes no longer brook 
Upon this ink-blurr'd thing to look. 
Go — shut the leaves — and clasp the book ! 
158 



KIRKE WHITE. 



THE HERB ROSEMARY. 



Sweet scented flower ! who art wont to bloom 
On January's front severe, 
And o'er the wintry desert drear 
To waft thy waste perfume! 
Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now, 
And I Avill bind thee round my brow ; 

.And as I twine the mournful wreath, 
I'll Aveave a melancholy song. 
And sweet the strain shall be, and long. 
The melody of death. 

Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell 
With the pale corse in lonely tomb, 
And throw across the desert gloom 
A sweet decaying smell. 

Come, press my lips, and lie with me 

Beneath the lowly alder-tree ; 

And Ave Avill sleep a pleasant sleep. 

And not a care shall dare intrude, 

To break the marble solitude. 
So peaceful, and so deep. 

And hark ! the Avind-god, as he flies, 
Moans holloAv in the forest-ti-ees. 
And sailing on the gusty breeze. 
Mysterious music dies. 
Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine. 
It warns me to the lonely shrine, 
159 



ODE TO DISAPPOINTMENT. 

The cold turf altar of the dead ; 
My grave shall be in yon lone spot, 
Where as I lie, by all forgot, 
A dying fragrance thou ^^'ilt o'er my ashes shed. 



ODE TO DISAPPOINTMENT. 

Come, Disappointment, come! 

Not in thy terrors clad ; 
Come in thy meekest, saddest guise : 
Thy chastening rod but terrifies 
The restless and the bad. 
But I recline 
Beneath thy shrine, 
And round my brow resign'd thy peaceful cypress tA\-inc' 

Though Fancy flies away 

Before thy hollow tread, 
Yet Meditation, in her cell, 
Hears with faint eye the ling'ring knell, 
That tells her hopes are dead ; 
And though the tear 
By chance appear, 
ret she can smile, and say. My all Avas not laid here ! 

What is this passing scene? 

A peevish April day! 
A little sun, a little rain. 
And then night sweeps along the plain. 
And all things fade away. 
Man (soon discuss'd) 
Yields up his trust. 
And all his hopes and fears lie AA-ith him in the dust. 

IGO 



KIRKE WHITE. 

(3h, what is lietiuty's power? 

It flourishes and dies ; 
Will the cold earth its silence break, 
To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek 
Beneath its surface lies? 
Mute, mute is all 
O'er Beauty's fall ; 
Her praise resounds no more when mantled in lier pall. 

The most belov'd on earth 

Not long survives to-day ; 
So music past is obsolete, 
And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet, 
But now 'tis gone away. 
Thus does the shade 
In memory fade. 
When in forsaken tomb the form belov'd is laid. 

Then, since this world is vain, 

And volatile, and fleet. 
Why should I lay up earthly joys 
Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys, 
And cares and sorrows eat? 
Why fly from ill 
With cautious skill. 
When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still? 

Come, Disappointment, come I 
Thou art not stern to me ; 
Sad monitress ! I own thy sway, 
A votary sad in early day, 
I bend my knee to thee. 
From sun to sun 
My race will run ; 
1 only bow, and say. My God, Thy Avill be done! 



161 



ALLSTON. 



AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN. 



All hail ! thou noble land, 
Our Fathers' native soil! 
O, stretch thy mighty hand, 
Gigantic grown by toil. 
O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore ! 
For thou with magic might 
Canst reach to where the light 
Of Phoebus travels bright 
The world o'er ! 

The Genius of our clime, 

From his pine-embattled steep, 
Shall hail the guest sublime ; 
While the Tritons of the deep 
With their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim. 
Then let the world combine, — 
O'er the main our naval line 
Like the milky-way shall shine 
Bright in fame! 

Though ages long have past 

Since our Fathers left their home, 
Their pilot in the blast. 

O'er untravelled seas to roam, 
Yet lives the blood of England in our veins! 
And shall we not proclaim 
That blood of honest fame 
Which no tyranny can tame 

By its chains? * 

162 



ALLSTOX. 

AVliile the language free and bold 
Which the Bard of Avon sung, 
In which our Milton told 

How tlie vault of heaven rung 
AVhcn Satan, blasted, fell with his host ; — 
While this, Avith reverence meet, 
Ten thousand echoes greet, 
From rock to rock repeat 
Round our coast ; — 

While the manners, while the arts, 

That mould a nation's soul, 
Still cling around our hearts, — 
Between let Ocean roll, 
Our joint communion breaking with the Sun: 
Yet still from either beach 
The Aoice of blood shall reach, 
More audible than speech, 
"We are One." 



ROSALIE. 



" POUK upon my soul again 
That sad, uneartldy strain. 
That seems from other worlds to plain ; 
Thus foiling, falling from afar. 
As if some melancholy star 
Had mingled with her light her sighs, 
And dropped them from the skies ! 

"No, — never came from aught below 
This melody of woe, 
That makes my heart to overfloAv. 
1 ']r, 



A FRAGMENT. 

As from a thousand gushing springs, 
Unknown before ; that Avith it brings 
This nameless light, — if light it be. — 
That veils the world I see. 

" For all I see around me wears 

The hue of other spheres ; 
And something blent of smiles and tear' 
Comes from the very air I breathe. 
O, nothing, sure, the stars beneath 
Can mould a sadness like to this. — 

So like angelic bliss." 

So, at that dreamy hour of dav 
When the last lingering ray 

Stops on the highest cloud to play, — 

So thought the gentle Kosalie, 

As on her maiden reverie 

First fell the strain of him who stole 
In music to her soul. 



A FRAGMENT. 

Wise is the face of Nature unto him 

Whose heart, amid the business and the cares, 

Tlie cunning and bad passions, of the world, 

Still keeps its freshness, and can look upon her 

As when she bi-eathed upon his schoolboy face 

Her morning breath, from o'er the dewy beds 

Of infant violets waking to the sun ; — 

When the young spirit, only recipient. 

So drank in her beauties, that his heart 

Would reel within him, joining jubilant 

Tlie dance of brooks and Avaving woods and flower: 




DANA. 



THE HUSBAND'S AND WIFE'S GRAVE. 



Husband and wife! No converse now ye hold. 
As once yo did in your young days of love, 

105 



THE HUSBAND'S AND WIFE'S GRAVE. 

On its alarms, its anxious hours, delays. 

Its silent meditations, its glad hopes, 

Its fears, impatience, quiet sympathies ; 

Nor do ye speak of joy assured, and bliss 

Full, certain, and possess'd. Domestic cares 

Call you not now together. Earnest talk 

(}n Avhat your children may be, moves you not. 

Ye lie in silence, and an awful silence ; 

'Tis not like that in which ye rested once 

Most happy — silence eloquent, when heart 

With heart held speech, and your mysterious frames, 

Hai'monious, sensitive, at every beat 

Touch'd the soft notes of love. 

Stillness profound. 
Insensible, unheeding, folds you round ; 
And darkness, as a stone, has seal'd you in. 
Away from all the living, here ye rest : 
In all the nearness of the narrow tomb. 
Yet feel ye not each other's presence now. 
Dread fellowship! together, yet alone. 

Is this thy prison-house, thy grave, then, Love? 
And doth death cancel the great bond that holds 
Commingling spirits ? Are thoughts that know no ])oun( 
But, self-inspired, rise upward, searching out 
The eternal Mind — the Father of all thought — 
Are they become mere tenants of a tomb? 
Dwellers in darkness, Avho th' illuminate realms 
Of uncreated light have visited and lived ? 
Lived in the dreadful splendour of that throne, 
\Yliich One, with gentle hand the veil of flesh 
Lifting, that hung 'twixt man and it, reveafd 
In glory? throne, before Avhich even now 
Our souls, moved by prophetic power, bow down 
Rejoicing, yet at their own natures awed? 
Souls that Thee know by a mysterious sense, 

IGG 



I 



DANA. 

Thou awful, unseen presence — are they quenched, 
Or burn they on, hid from our mortal eyes 
By that bright day which ends not, as the sun 
His robe of light flings round the glittering stars? 

And with our frames do perish all our loves? 
Do those that took their root and put forth buds, 
And their soft leaves unfolded in the Avarmth 
Of mutual hearts, grow up and live in beauty. 
Then fade and fall, like fair unconscious flowers? 
Are thoughts and passions that to the tongue give speed 
And make it send forth winning harmonies, 
That to the cheek do give its living glow, 
And vision in the eye the soul intense 
"With that for which there is no utterance — 
Are these the body's accidents? no moi'e? 
To live in it, and when that dies, go out 
Like the burnt taper's flame? 

Oh, listen, man ! 
A voice within us speaks that startling word, 
" Man, thou shalt never die !" Celestial voices 
Hymn it unto our souls : according harps, 
By angel fingers touch'd when the mild stars 
Of morning sang together, sound forth still 
The song of our great immortality : 
Thick clustering orbs, and this our fair domain, 
The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas 
Join in this solemn, vmiversal song. 
Oil, listen, ye, our spirits ; drink it in 
From all the air ! 'Tis in the gentle moonlight ; 
'Tis floating midst day's setting glories ; Night, 
Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step 
Comes to our bed and breathes it in our ears : 
Night, and the dawn, bright day, and thoughtful eve, 
All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse. 
As one vast mystic instrument, are touch'd 

167 



THE HUSBAND'S AND WIFE'S GKAVE. 

By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords 
Quiver with joy in this great jubilee. 
The dying hear it ; and as sounds of earth 
Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls 
To mingle in this heavenly harmony. 

Why is it that I linger round this tomb? 
AMiat holds it? Dust that cumber'd those I mourn. 
They shook it off, and laid aside earth's robes, 
And put on those of light. They're gone to dwell 
In love — their God's and angels'. Mutual love. 
That bound them here, no longer needs a speech 
For full communion ; nor sensations strong, 
Within the breast, their prison, strive in vain 
To be set free, and meet their kind in joy. 
Changed to celestials, thoughts that rise in each. 
By natui-es new, impart themselves, though silent. 
Each quick'ning sense, each throb of holy love, 
Aftections sanctified, and the full glow 
Of being, which expand and gladden one. 
By union all mysterious, thrill and live 
In both immortal frames : Sensation all. 
And thought, pervading, mingling sense and thought.' 
Ye pair'd, yet one! wi-apped in a consciousness 
T\\'ofold, yet single — this is love, this life I 

AMiy call we, then, the square-built monument, 
The upright column, and the low-laid slab, 
Tokens of death, memorials of decay? 
Stand in this solemn, still assembly, man, 
And learn thy proper nature ; for thou see'sl, 
In these shaped stones and letter'd tables, figures 
Of life : More are they to thy soul than those 
AVhicli he who talk'd on Sinai's mount with God 
Brought to the old Judeans — types are these, 
Of thine eternity. 



168 



DANA. 

I thank thee, Father, 
That at this simple grave, on which the dawu 
Is breaking, emblem of that day which hath 
No close, Thou kindly unto my dark mind 
Hast sent a sacred light, and that away 
From this green hillock, whither I had come 
In sorrow, Thou art leading me in joy. 



A CLUMP OF DAISIES. 



Ye daisies gay. 

This fresh spring day 
Close gathered here together, 

To play in the light, 

To sleep all the night. 
To abide through the sullen weather : 

Ye creatures bland, 

A simple band, 
Ye free ones, linked in pleasure. 

And linked when your forms 

Stoop low in the storms, 
And the rain comes down without measuif 

When wild clouds fly 

Athwart the sky. 
And ghostly shadows, glancing, 

Are darkening the gleam 

Of the hurrying stream. 
And your close, bright lieads gayly dancing 



A CLUMP OF DAISIES. 

Though dull awhile, 

Again yc smile ; 
For, see, the warm sun breaking ; 

The stream's going glad, 

There's nothing now sad. 
And the small bird his song is waking. 

Ilie dew-drop sip 

With dainty lip ! 
The sun is low descended. 

And, Moon ! softly fall 

On troop true and small ! 
Sky and earth in one kindly blended. 

And, Morning ! spread 

Their jewelled bed 
With lights in the east sky springing! 

And, Brook ! breathe around 

Thy low murmured sound ! 
May they move, ye Birds, to your singing 

For in their play 

I hear them say, 
Here, man, thy wisdom borrow ; 

In heart be a child. 

In word, true and mild : 
Hold thy faith, come joy, or come sorrow. 



170 



WOODWORTH. 

THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. 

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood. 

Wheji fond recollection presents them to view ; 
The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wild wood, 

And every loved spot which my infancy knew : 
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it. 

The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell ; 
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it. 

And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well. 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. 

That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure ; 

For often, at noon, when returned from the field, 
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, 

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 
How ardent I seized it with hands that were glowing, 

And quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell ; 
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing. 

And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well ; 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 
The moss-covered bucket arose from the well. 

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it. 

As, pois'd on the curb, it inclined to my lips ! 
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it. 

Though fill'd with the nectar that Jupiter sips. 
And now far removed from the loved situation, 

The tear of regi'et will intrusively swell. 
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation. 

And sighs for the bucket Avhich hangs in the well ; 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
'llie moss-covered bucket which hangs in his well, 

171 




SCOTT. 

THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW HILL. 

The sun uiwn the Weirdlaw Hill, 
111 P^ttrick's vale, is sinking sweet ; 
172 



SCOTT. 

The westland wind is husht and still. 

The lake lies sleeping at my feet. 
Yet not the landscape to mine eye 

Bears those sweet hues that once it bore ; 

Though Evening, with her richest dye, 
Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick shore. 

With listless look along the plain, 

I see Tweed's silver current glide, 
And coldly mark the holy fane 

Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride. 
The quiet lake, the balmy air, 

The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree — 
Are they still sweet as once they were, 

Or is the dreary change in me ? 

Alas! the warp'd and broken board, 

How can it bear the painter's dye ? 
The harp of strain'd and tuneless chord, 

How to the minstrel's skill reply? 
To aching eyes each landscape lours. 

To feverish pulse each gale blows chill ; 
And Araby, or Eden's bowers. 

Were barren as this moorland hill. 



173 



i^y li f'di^ il 




MARMIOX— DYING. 



TiiEY parted, and alone lie lay ; 

Clare drew her from the i^iglit away. 
Till pain AA-rung forth a lowly moan, 
And half he murmur'd, — " Is there none, 

Of all my halls have nnrst, 
Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring 
Of blessed Avater from the f])ring, 

To slake my dying thirst ?" 
174 



SCOTT. 

AVoinaii ! in our hours of ease, 

Uucertain, coy, and hard to please, 

And variable as the shade 

By the light quivering aspen made ; 

When pain and anguish Avring the brow, 

A uiinistering angel thou! — 

Scarce were the piteous accents said, 

AViien, with the Baron's casque, the maid 

To the nigh streamlet ran : 
Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears— 
The plaintive voice alone she hears, 

vSees but the dying man. 
She stoop d her by the runnel's side. 

But in abhorrence backward drew; 
For, oozing from the mountains wide, 
"Where raged the war, a dark-red tide 

Was curdling in the streamlet blue. 
"Wliere shall she turn? behold her mark 

A little fountain cell, 
AMiere Avater, clear as diamond-spark. 

In a stone basin fell. 
Al)ove, some half-Avorn letters say, 

flriiilv . inrnrij , ]iilgrira . lm\{ . ul . prnij 

Inr . tilt . kiE^ . snul . nf . Iijhil . i^m\ . 

iV'lin . huilt . tjiis . trnss . ml . inrll . 

She tiird the helm, and back she hied, 
And with surprise and joy espied 

A Monk supporting Marmion's head — 
A i)ious man, whom duty brought 
To dubious verge of battle fought. 

To shrive the dying, bless the dead. 



175 




THE BURNING OF ROKEBY. 



Soon mnrkici- clouds the Hall enfold, 
Than e'er from battle-thunders roU'd — 
So dense, the combatants scarce know 
To aim or to avoid the blow. 
Smoth'ring and blindfold groAVS the figlit- 
Biit soon shall dawn a dismal liglit ! 
176 



SCOTT. 

'JMid cries, and clashing arms, there came 
The hollow sound of rushing flame ; 
New horrors on the tumult dire 
Arise — the Castle is on fire ! 
Doubtful, if chance had cast the brand, 
Or frantic Bertram's desperate hand. 
Matilda saw — for frequent broke 
From the dim casements gusts of smoke. 
Yon tower, which late so clear defin'd 
On the fair hemisphere reclin'd, 
That, pencill'd on its azure pure, 
The eye could count each embrasure, 
Now, swath'd within the sweeping cloud. 
Seems giant spectre in his shroud ; 
TUl, from each loophole flashing light, 
A spout of fire shines ruddy bright, 
And, gathering to united glare. 
Streams high into the midnight air ; 
A dismal beacon, far and wide 
That waken'd Greta's slumbering side. 
Soon all beneath, through gallery long 
And pendant arch, the fire flash'd strong, 
Snatching whatever could maintain, 
Eaise, or extend, its furious reign ; 
Startling, with closer cause of dread, 
The females who the conflict fled. 
And now rush'd forth upon the plain, 
FilUng the air with clamours vain. 

But ceas'd not yet, the Hall -nithin. 
The shriek, the shout, the carnage-din. 
Till bursting lattices give proof 
The flames have caught the rafter'd roof. 
"SMiat! wait they till its beams amain 
Crash on the slayers and the slain ? 
Th' alarm is caught — the draAvbridge falls- 
The warriors hurry from the walls ; 
177 



THE BURNING OF KOKEBY. 

But, by the conflagration's light, 
Upon the lawn renew the fight. 
Each straggling felon down was hew'cl, 
Not one could gain the shelt'ring wood ; 
But forth th' affrighted harper sprung, 
And to Matilda's robe he clung. 
Her shriek, entreaty, and command, 
Stopp'd the pursuer's lifted hand. 
Dcnzil and he alive were ta'en; 
The rest, save Bertram, all are slain. 

And where is Bertram? — Soaring high, 
Tlie general flame ascends the sky ; 
In gathei-"d group the soldiers gaze 
Upon the broad and roaring blaze, 
When, like infernal demon, sent 
Red from his penal element, 
To plague and to pollute the air — 
His face all gore, on fire his hair — 
Forth from the central mass of smoke 
The giant form of Bertram broke! 
His brandish'd sword on high he rears, 
Then plung'd among opposing spears ; 
Round his left arm his mantle truss'd, 
Receiv'd and foil'd three lances' thrust ; 
Nor these his headlong course withstood. 
Like I'eeds he snapp'd the tough ash-wood 
In A-ain his foes around him clung; 
■\Vith matchless force aside he flung 
Their boldest, — as the bull at bay 
Tosses the ban-dogs from his Ava}-, 
Through forty foes his path he made, 
And safely gain'd the forest glade. 

Scarce was this final conflict o'er. 
When from the postern Redmond bore 
Wilfrid, who, as of life bereft, 

178 



SCOTT. 

Had in the fotal Hall been left. 
Deserted there by all his train ; — 
But Redmond saw, and turn'd again. 
Beneath an oak he laid him down, 
That in the blaze gleam'd ruddy broAA'n, 
And then his mantle's clasp imdid ; 
Matilda held his drooping head, 
Till, given to breathe the freer air, 
Returning life repaid their care. 
He gazed on them with heavy sigh, — 
"I could have wish'd even thus to die!" 
No more he said — for now with speed 
Each trooper had regain'd his steed ; 
The ready palfreys stood array'd. 
For Redmond and for Rokeby's Maid; 
Two AVilfrid on his horse sustain, 
One leads his charger by the rein. 
But oft Matilda look'd behind. 
As up the Vale of Tees they wind, 
Where far the mansion of her sires 
Beacon'd the dale with midnight fires. 
In gloomy arch above them spread. 
The clouded heaven loAver'd bloody red ; 
Beneath, in sombre light, the flood 
Appear'd to roll in waves of blood. 
Then, one by one, was heard to fall 
The tower, the donjon-keep, tlie hall. 
Each rushing doA\ii with thunder sound, 
A space the conflagration drown'd ; 
Till, gathering strength, again it rose, 
Announc'd its triumph in its clo^e. 
Shook wide its light the landscape o'er, 
Then sunk — and Rokeby was no more ! 



179 



i 



CAMPBELL. 



THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. 

Our bugles sang truce — for the night-cloud had lower'd. 
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; 

And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower d. 
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, 
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain. 

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw; 
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. 

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array. 
Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track, 

Till Autumn — and sunshine arose on the way 

To the house of my fathers, that welcomed me back. 

I flew to the pleasant fields, travers'd so oft 

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young ; 

I heard my OAvn mountain-goats bleating aloft, 

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. 

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore 

From my home and my weeping friends never to part ; 

My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er. 
And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. 

•'Stay — stay with us! — rest! thou art weary and worn !"- 
(And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ;) 

But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn. 
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away ! 
ISO 



CAMPBELL. 



THE EXILE OF ERIN. 



There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erm, 
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill ; 

For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing 
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. 

But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion ; 

For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, 

Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion. 
He sang the bold anthem of Erui-go-bragh. 

"Sad is my fate!" said the heart-broken stranger: 
" The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee. 

But I have no refuge from famine and danger,- 
A home and a country remain not to me. 

Never again, in the green sunny bowers 

Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hour; 

Or cover my . harp with the wild-woven flowers. 
And strike to the numbers of Erin-go-bragh. 

" Erin, my country ! though sad and forsaken, 
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore ; 

But, alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken, 

And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more ! 

Oh cruel fate ! wilt thou never replace me 

In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me? 

Never again shall my brothers embrace me ! 
They died to defend me, or live to deplore ! 

"A^liere is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood? 

Sisters and sire ! did ye weep for its fall ? 
Wliere is the mother that look'd on my childhood? 

And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all? 

181 




Ah! my sad heart! long abamloiiM by plca.surf ! 
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure? 
Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure, 
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall. 



"Yet all its sad recollections suppressing, 
One dying wish my lone bosom can draw; 

Erin ! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing, 
Land of my forefathers ! Erin-go-bragh ! 

Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion. 

Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean ! 

And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion. 
' Erin mavournin, — Erin-go-bragh !' " 
182 



CA]VH'BELL. 



DRINKING SONG OF MUNICH. 



Sweet Iser! were thy sunny realm 

And flowery gardens mine, 
Thy waters I would shade Avith ehn. 

To prop the tender vme. 
i\Iy golden flagons I would fill 
\\''ith rosy draughts from every hill ; 

And, under each green spreading bower. 
?vly gay companions should prolong 
The feast, the revel, and the song. 

To many an idle sportive hour. 

Like rivers crimson'd by the beam 

Of yonder planet bright, 
Our balmy cups should ever stream 

Profusion of delight; 
No care should touch the mellow heart. 
And sad or sober none depart ; 

(For wine can triumph over woe ;) 
And Love and Bacchus, brother powers, 
Should build in Iser's sunny bowers 

A Paradise below? 



183 



LOCHIEL'S WARNING. 



LOCHIEL'S WARNING. 



WIZARD. 



LocHiEL, Lochiel, beware of the day, 
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle-array ! 
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, 
And the clans of Culloden are scatter'd in fight : 
They rally, they bleed for theu" kingdom and crown,— 
Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down ! 
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, 
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. 
But hark ! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, 
Wliat steed to the desert flies frantic and far? 
'Tis thine, O Glenullin ! whose bride shall await. 
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. 
A steed comes at morning — no rider is there ; 
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. 
Weep, Albin ! to death and captivity led ; 
Oh, weep ! but thy tears cannot number the dead ; 
For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave — 
Culloden that reeks with the blood of the brave. 

LOCHIEL. 

Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer! 
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear. 
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight. 
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. 



Ha! laugh' st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? ^ 
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn ! 
Say, rush'd the bold eagle exultingly forth. 
From his home, in the dark-rolling clouds of the North? 

18-t 



CAMPBELL. 

Lo ! tlie death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode 
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad : 
But down let him stoop from his havoc on high ! 
Ah! home let him speed — for the spoiler is nigh. 
Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast 
Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast? 
'Tis the fire-show' r of Ruin, all dreadfully driven 
From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven. 

crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might. 
Whose banners arise on the battlement's height. 
Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn ; 
Return to thy dwelling ! all lonely return ! 

For the blackness of ashes shall mai'k where it stood, 
And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood. 

LOCHIEL. 

False Wizard, avaunt ! I have marshall'd my clan : 
Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one ! 
They are true to the last of their blood and their breath. 
And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. 
Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock! 
Let him dash his proud foam, like a wave on the rock ! 
But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause. 
When Albin her cla;yaBore indignantly draws! 
When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, 
Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud, 
All plaided and plumed in their tartan array — 

WIZARD. 

— Lochiel, Lochiel ! beware of the day ; 
For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal. 
But man cannot cover what God would reveal : 
'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore. 
And coming events cast their shadows before. 

1 tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring 

With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king. 

18.-, 



LOCHIEL'S WAKNING. 

Lo ! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wralli. 
Behokl, where he flies on his desolate path ! 
Now, in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my fright — 
Ivise ! rise ! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight ! . . . . 
. . . 'Tis finish'd. Their thunders are hush'd on the moor; 
Culloden is lost, and my country deplores. 
]>ut whei'e is the iron-bound prisoner ? Where ? 
For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. 
■ Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banish'd, forlorn, 
Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn ? 
Ah, no! for a darker departure is near; 
The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier ; 
His death-bell is tolling ; oh ! mercy, dispel 
Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell ! 
Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, 
And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. 
Accurs'd be the fagots that blaze at his feet, 
AV'here his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat. 
^\'ith the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale — 

LOCIIIEL. 

— Down, soothless insulter ! I trust not the talc ; 

For never shall Albin a destiny meet 

So black with dishonour, so foul Avith retreat. 

Tho' my perishing ranks should be strew'd in their gore. 

Like ocean-weeds heap'd on the surf-beaten shore, 

Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains. 

While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, 

Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, 

With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe! 

And, leaving in battle no blot on his name, 

Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of fame. 



186 



CAMPBELL. 



HOHENLINDEN. 



On Linden, when the sun was low. 
All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow ; 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly 

But Linden saw another sight, 
When the drum beat, at dead of night. 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her sceneiy. 

By torch and trumpet fast array'd, 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade. 
And furious every charger neigh' d. 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills, with thunder riven 
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven ; 
And, louder than the bolts of heaven. 
Far flash'd the red artillery. 

But redder yet that light shall glow 
On Linden's hills of stained snow. 
And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, 
Where furious Frank, and fiery Ilun, 
Shout in their sulph'rous canopy. 

187 



HOHENLINDEN. 










^e?'''-;''' ' 



''<^y^t ^, t.^^^'ne ^- 



i=S^~!??#-'?^i-~>^" 



The combat deepens. On, jc brave, 
Who riisli to glory, or the grave ! 
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave! 
And charge with all thy chivalry! 

188 



CAMPBELL. 



Few, few shall part, Avhere many meet ! 
The snow shall be their winding-sheet, 
And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre! 



BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 

Of Nelson and the North, 

Sing the glorious day's reno^vIl, 

"When to battle fierce came forth 

All the might of Denmark's cro-svn, 

And her arms along the deep proudly shone; 

By each gun the lighted brand. 

In a bold determined hand. 

And the Prince of all the land 

Led them on. — 

Like leviathans afloat, 

Lay their bulwarks on the brine ; 

Wliile the sign of battle flew 

On the lofty British line: 

It was ten of April morn by the chime : 

As they drifted on their path. 

There was silence deep as death; 

And the boldest held his breath 

For a time. — 

But the might of England flush' d 
To anticipate the scene; 
And her van the fleeter rush'd 
O'er the deadly space between. 

"Hearts of oak!" our captain cried; when each gun 
189 



BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 

From its adamantine li})s 

Spread a death-shade round the ships, 

Like the hurricane eclipse 

Of the smi. — 

Again ! again ! again ! 

And the havoc did not slack, 

Till a feeble cheer the Dane 

To our cheering sent us back ; 

Their shots along the deep sloAvly boom : 

Then ceas'd — and all is wail, 

As they strike the shatter'd sail ; 

Or, in conflagi'ation pale, 

Light the gloom. — 

Out spoke the victor then, 

As he hail'd them o'er the wave : 

" Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! 

And we conquer but to save : — 

80 peace instead of death let us bring: 

But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, 

With the crews, at England's feet, 

And make submission meet 

To our King.'* — 

Then Denmark blest our chief 

That he gave her wounds repose ; 

And the sounds of joy and grief 

From her people Avildly rose. 

As Death withdrew his shades from the day: 

While the sun look'd smiling bright 

O'er a wide and woful sight, 

Where the fires of funeral light 

Died away. — 

Now joy, Old England, raise ! 
For the tidings of thy might, 
190 



1 



CAMPBELL. 

By the festal cities' blaze, 

Whilst the wine-cup shines in light ; 

And yet, amidst that joy and uproar, 

Let us think of them that sleep, 

Full many a fathom deep, 

B)' thy wild and stormy steep, 

Elsinore ! — 

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride 

Once so faithful and so true, 

On the deck of fame that died. 

With the gallant, good Eiou ; — 

Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er tlieir grave ! 

While the billow mournful rolls. 

And the mermaid's song condoles, 

Singing glory to the souls 

Of the brave ! 



YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. 



Ye Mariners of England ! 

That guard our native seas ; 

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years. 

The battle and the breeze ! 

Y'our glorious standard launch agnin. 

To match another foe ! 

And sweep through the deep. 

While the stormy winds do blow; 

Wliilc, the battle rages loud and lung, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 




The spirits of your fathers 
Shall start from every wave ! 
For the deck it was their field of fame, 
And Ocean was their grave : 
Wliere Blake and mighty Nelson fell, 
Your manly hearts shall glow, 
As ye sweep through the deep, 
While the stormy winds do blow ; 
While the battle rages loud and long, 
And the stormy winds do blow. 
192 



CAMPBELL. 

Britannia needs no bulwarks, 

No towers along the steep ; 

Her march is on the mountain-waves, 

Her home is on the deep. 

With thunders from her native oak, 

She quells the floods below — 

As they roar on the shore, 

When the stormy winds do blow; 

"^Vlien the battle rages loud and long. 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

The meteor flag of England 

Shall yet terrific burn, 

Till danger's troubled night depart, 

And the star of peace return. 

Then, then, ye ocean- wan-iors ! 

Our song and feast shall floAv 

To the fame of your name. 

When the storm has ceased to blow; 

When the fiery fight is heard no more, 

And the storm has ceased to blow. 



193 



WILDE. 

STANZAS. 

My life is like the summer rose 

That opens to the morning sky, 
But ere the shades of evening close, 

Is scatter'd on the ground — to die ! 
Yet on the rose's humble bed 
The sweetest dews of night are shed. 
As if she wept the waste to see — 
But none shall weep a tear for me! 

My life is like the autumn leaf 

That trembles in the moon's pale ray, 
Its hold is frail — its date is brief, 

Restless — and soon to pass away ! 
Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, 
The parent tree will mourn its shade, 
The winds bewail the leafless tree, 
But none shall breathe a sigh for me ! 

My life is like the prints, which feet 

Have left on Tampa's desert strand ; 
Soon as the rising tide shall beat, 

All trace will vanish from the sand; 
Yet, as if grieving to efface 
All vestige of the human race, 
On that lone shore loud moans the sea, 
But none, alas ! shall mourn for me ! 



194 



JAMES MONTGOMERY. 

THE DEATH OF ADAM. 

The sun, in summer majesty on high, 

Darted his fierce eflulgence down tlie sky ; 

Yet dimm'd and blunted were the dazzling rays, 

His orb expanded tlirough a dreary haze, 

And, circled with a red portentous zone. 

He look'd in sickly horror from his throne : 

\^lien higher noon had shrunk the lessening shade, 

Thence to his home our fiither we convey' d. 

And stretch'd him, pillow'd with his latest sheaves. 

On a fresh couch of green and fragrant leaves. 

Here, though his sufferings through the glen were knowi 

We chose to watch his dying-bed alone. 

Eve, Seth, and I. — In vain he sigh'd for rest. 

And oft his meek complainings thus express'd : 

"Blow on me, Wind! I faint with heat! O bring 

Delicious water from the deepest spring ; 

Your sunless shadows o'er my limbs diffuse. 

Ye Cedars ! wash me cold with midnight dews ; 

Cheer me, my friends ! with looks of kindness cheer ; 

Whisper a word of comfort in mine ear ; 

These sorrowing faces fill my soul with gloom — 

This silence is the silence of the tomb." 

The sun went down, amidst an angry glare 
Of flushing clouds, that crimson'd all the air ; 
The winds brake loose ; the forest-boughs were torn, 
And dai'k aloof the eddying foliage borne ; 



THE DEATH OF ADAM. 

Cattle to shelter scudded in affright ; 

The florid Evening vanisli'd into night : 

Then burst the hurricane upon the vale, 

In peals of thunder, and thick-volley'd hail ; 

Prone rushing rains Avith torrents whelm'd the land ; 

Our cot amidst a river seem'd to stand ; 

Around its base, the foamy-crested streams 

Flash'd through the darkness to the lightning's gleams ; 

With monstrous throes an earthquake heaved the ground ; 

The rocks were rent, the mountains trembled round. 

Amidst this war of elements, within 
More dreadful grew the sacrifice of sin, 
Whose victim on his bed of torture lay, 
Breathing the slow remains of life away. 
Erewhile, victorious fiiith sublimer rose 
Beneath the pressure of collected woes ; 
But now his spirit* waver'd, went and came, 
Like the loose vapour of departing flame, 
Till at the point, when comfort seem'd to die 
For ever in his fix'd unclosing eye. 
Bright through the smouldering ashes of the man, 
The saint brake forth, and Adam thus began : — 
" O ye who shudder at this awful strife. 
This wrestling agony of Death and Life, 
Think not that He, on whom my soul is cast, 
Will leave me thus forsaken to the last ; 
Nature's infirmity alone you see ; 
My chains arc breaking, I shall soon be free : 
Though firm in God the spirit holds her trust, 
The fiesh is frail, and trembles into dust. 
Thou, of my faith the Author and the End ! 
Mine early, late, and everlasting Friend ! 
The joy, that once Thy presence gave, restore. 
Ere I am summon'd hence, and seen no more ; 
Down to the dust returns this earthly frame — 
lleceive my spirit, Lord ! from whom it came." 

196 



JAMES MONTGOMERY. 

He closed his eyelids with a tranquil smile, 
And seem'd to rest in silent pi-aver awhile i 
Around his couch Avith filial awe we kneel'd, 
When suddenly a light from heaven reveal'd 
A Spirit, that stood within the unopen'd door. 
The sword of God in his right hand he bore ; 
His countenance was lightning, and his vest 
Like snow at sun-rise on the mountain's crest ; 
Yet so benignly beautiful his form, 
His presence still'd the fury of the storm ; 
At once the winds retire, the waters cease ; 
His look was love, his salutation " Peace !" 

Our Mother first beheld him, sore amazed, 
But terror grew to transport, while she gazed. — 
" 'Tis he, the Prince of Seraphim ! who drove 
Our banish'd feet from Eden's happy grove. 
Adam, my Life, my Spouse, awake!" she cried; 
"Return to Paradise; behold thy Guide! 
O let me follow in this dear embrace !" 
She sunk, and on his bosom hid her face. 
Adam look'd up; his visage changed its hue, 
Transform'd into an Angel's at the view. 
" I come !" he cried, with faith's full triumph fir'd, 
And in a sigh of ecstasy expir'd. 
The light was vanish'd, and the vision fled ; 
We stood alone, the living with the dead ; 
The ruddy embers, glimmering round the room, 
Display'd the corpse amidst the solemn gloom ; 
But o'er the scene a holy calm repos'd. 
The gate of heaven had open'd there, and clos'd. 



107 



JOANNA BAILLIE. 



THE PHRENZY OF ORRA. 



Ilartman. Is she Avell? 

Theobald. Her body is. 

Ilart. And not her mind ? oh, direst wreck of all ! 
That noble mind! — But 'tis some passing seizure, 
Some poAverful movement of a transient nature ; 
It is not madness ! 

Theo. 'Tis Heaven's infliction; let us call it so; 
Crive it no other name. 

Eleanora. Nay, do not thus despair ; when she beholds us, 
She'll know her friends, and, by our kindly soothing, 
Be gradually restored — 

Alice. Let me go to her. 

Theo. Nay, forbear, I pray thee; 
I will myself with thee, my worthy Hartman, 
Go in and lead her forth. 

Orra. Come back, come back! the fierce and fiery light! 

Theo. Shrink not, dear love! it is the light of day. 

Orra. Have cocks crow'd yet? 

Theo. Yes ; twice I've heard already 
T'heir matin sound. Look up to the blue sky — 
Is it not daylight there? And these green boughs 
Ai"e fresh and fragrant round thee ; every sense 
Tells thee it is the cheerful early day. 

Orra. Aye, so it is; day takes his daily turn. 
Rising between the gulfy dells of night. 
Like whiten'd billows on a gloomy sea. 

198 



JOANNA BAILLIE. 

Till glow-worms gleam, and stars peep through the dark, 
And will-o'-the-Avisp his dancing taper light, 
They will not come again. 

\_Bending her ear to the ground. 
Hark, hark ! aye, hark ! 
They are all there : I hear their hollow sound 
Full many a fathom down. 

Theo. Be still, poor troubled soul ! they'll ne'er return — 
They are for ever gone. Be well assured 
Thou shalt from henceforth have a cheerful home, 
With crackling fagots on thy midnight fire. 
Blazing like day around thee ; and thy friends — 
Thy living, loving friends — still by thy side. 
To speak to thee and cheer thee. See, my Orra! 
They are beside thee now; dost thou not know them? 

Orra. No, no! athwart the wav'ring garish light, 
Things move and seem to be, and yet are nothing. 

Elea. My gentle Orra ! hast thou then forgot me ? 
Dost not thou know my voice"? 

On^a. 'Tis like an old tune to my ear return'd. 
Foi; there be those Avho sit in cheerful halls, 
And breathe sweet air, and speak with pleasant sounds ; 
And once I liv'd with such ; some years gone by, — 
I wot not now how long. 

Iliujhohert. Keen words that rend my heart ! thou hadst a home. 
And one whose faith was pledged for thy protection. 

Urston. Be more composed, my Lord ; some faint remembrance 
Returns upon hex*, with the well-kno"wn sound 
Of voices once familiar to her ear. 
Let Alice sing to her some fav'rite tune, 
That may lost thoughts recall. 

\_Alice sings. 

Orra. Ha, ha! the witch'd air sings for thee bravely. 
Hoot owls through mantling fog for matin birds ? 
It lures not me. — I know thee Avell enough : 
The bones of murder'd men thy measure beat. 
And fleshless heads nod to thee — Off, I say ! 

199 



THE FHRENZY OF ORRA. 

Wliy tire ye here ? — That is the blessed sun. 

Elea. Ah, Orra ! do not look upon us thus ; 
These are the voices of thy loving friends 
That speak to thee ; this is a friendly hand 
That presses thine so kindly. 

Hart Oh, grievous state ! what terror seizes thee ? 

Orra. Take it away ! It was the swathed dead ; 
I know its clammy, chdl, and bony touch. 
Come not again ; I'm strong and terrible now : 
Mine eyes have look'd upon all dreadful things ; 
And when the earth yaAvns, and the hell-blast sound.-, 
I'll bide the trooping of unearthly steps, 
With stiff, clench'd, terrible strength. 

Hurjh. A murd'rer is a guiltless wretch to me. 

Hart. Be patient ; 'tis a momentary pitch ; 
Let me encounter it. 

Orra. Take off from me thy strangely-fasten'd eye ; 
I may not look upon thee — yet I must. 
Unfix thy baleful glance. Art thou a snake? 
Something of horrid power within thee dwells. 
Still, still that powerful eye doth suck me in 
Like a dark eddy to its wheeling core. 
Spare me ! O spare me. Being of strange power. 
And at thy feet my subject head I'll lay. 

Eka. Alas, the piteous sight ! to see her thus. 
The noble, generous, playful, stately Orra! 

Thco. Out on thy hateful and ungenerous guile ! 
Think'st thou I'll suffer o'er her wretched state 
The slightest shadow of a base control? 

[Raising Orra from the ground. 
No ; rise, thou stately flower with rude blasts rent ; 
As honour'd art thou with thy broken stem 
And leaflets strew'd, as in thy summer's pride. 
I've seen thee worshipp'd like a regal Dame, 
With every studied form of mark'd devotion, 
"Wliilst I, in distant silence, scarcely proffer'd 
Ev'n a plain soldier's courtesy; but now, 

200 



JOANNA BAILLIE. 

No liege man to his crowned mistress sworn, 

Bound and devoted is as I to thee ; 

And he who offers to thy alter'd state 

The slightest seeming of diminish'd rev'rencc, 

Must in my blood — (To Ilartman) — O pardon me, my friend! 

Thou'st wrung my heart. 

Hart. Nay, do thou pardon me, — I am to blame : 
Thy nobler heart shall not again be wrung. 
But what can now be done ? O'er such wild ravings 
There must be some control. 

Thco. O none ! none ! none ! but gentle sympathy. 
And watchfulness of love. 

My noble Orra! 
Wander where'er thou wilt, thy vagrant steps 
Shall follow'd be by one, who shall not weary. 
Nor e'er detach him from his hopeless task ; 
Bound to thee now as fairest, gentlest beauty 
Could ne'er have bound him. 

Alice. See how she gazes on him Avith a look, 
Subsiding gradually to softer sadness. 
Half saying that she knows him. 

El There is a kindness in her changing eye. 



201 



GExlHAME. 



THE SABBATH. 



How still the morning of the Imllow'd day! 
Mute is the vt^ice of rural labour, hush'd 
The plough-boy's whistle, and the milk-maid's song. 
The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath 
Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers, 
That yestermorn bloom'd waving in the breeze ; 
Sounds the most faint attract the ear, — the hum 
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew. 
The distant bleating, midway up the hill. 
Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud. 
To him who wanders o'er the upland leas. 
The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale ; 
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark 
Warbles his heaven-tun'd song ; the lulling brook 
Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen ; 
While from yon lowly roof, whose circling smoke 
O'er-mounts tRe mist, is heard, at intervals, 
The voice of Psalms, the simple song of praise. 
With dove-like wings Peace o'er yon village broods; 
The dizzying mill-wheel rests ; the anvil's din 
Hath ceas'd ; all, all around is quietness. 
Less fearful on this day, the limping hare 
202 




Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man. 
Pier deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free, 
Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large ; 
And as his stiff umvieldy bulk he rolLs 
His iron-arm'd hoofs gleam in the 
203 



mornuig ray. 



SUNDAY TO THE SHIPWRECKED. 



SUNDAY TO THE SHIPWRECKED. 



On! my heart bleeds to think there now may li\c 

One hapless man, the remnant of a wreck, 

Cast on some desert island of that main 

Immense, which stretches from the Cochin shore 

To Acapulco. Motionless he sits, 

As is the rock his seat, gazing whole days, 

With wandering eye, o'er all the watery Avaste ; 

Now stri\ing to believe the albatross 

A sail appearing on the horizon's verge ; 

Now vowing ne'er to cherish other hope 

Than hope of death. Thus pass his Aveary hour^^, 

Till welcome evening Avarn him that 'tis time 

Upon the Avell-notch'd calendar to mark 

Another day, another dreary day, — 

Changeless. 

But yet by him. 
The Hermit of the Deep, not unobscrv'd 
The Sabbath passes; — 'tis his gi-eat delight. 
Each seventh eve he marks the farewell ray, 
And loves, and sighs to think, — that setting sun 
Is now empurpling Scotland's mountain-tops. 
Or, higher risen, slants athwart her vales. 
Tinting with yellow light the quivering throat 
Of day-spring lark, while Avoodland birds beloA\- 
Chaunt in the dcAvy shade. Thus, all night long 
He watches, while the rising moon describes 
The progress of the day in happier lands. 
And now he almost fancies that he hears 
The chiming from his native village churcli : 
204 



GRAHAME. 

And now he sings, and Ibndly hopes the strain 
May be the same that sweet ascends at home 
In congregation full, — where, not without a tear. 
They are remember'd who in ships behold 
The wonders of the deep : he sees the hand. 
The widow'd hand, that veils the eye sutfus'd ; 
He sees his orphan' d boy look up, and strive 
The widow'd heart to soothe. His spirit leans 
On God.— 

— Calm he views 
The far-exploding firmament, and dares 
To hope — one bolt in mercy is reserved 
For his release ; and yet he is resign'd 
To live : because full well he is assured 
Thy Hand does lead him, thy right Hand upholds. 
And thy right Hand does lead him ! Lo ! at last. 
One sacred eve, he hears, faint from the deep, 
Music remote, swelling at inter\als, 
As if the embodied spirit of sweet sounds 
Came slowly floating on the shoreward y\-n\e : 
The cadence well he knows — a hymn of old, 
Where sweetly is rehears'd the lowly state 
Of Jksus, Avhen his birth Avas first announced. 
In midnight music, by an angel choir. 
To Bethlehem's shepherds, as they watch'd their flock? 
Breathless, the man forlorn listens, and thinks 
It is a dream. Fuller the voices swell ; 
He looks, and starts to see, moving along, 
A fiery wave, (so seems it,) crescent form'd. 
Approaching to the land ; straightAvay he sees 
A towering Avhiteness ; 'tis the heaven-fill' d sails 
That waft the mission'd men, Avho have renounced 
Their homes, their country, nay, almost the world, 
Bearing glad tidings to the farthest isles 
Of ocean, that the dead shall rise again. 
Forward the gleam-girt castle coast-wise glides, 
It seems as it would pass away — To cry 
205 



A SABBATH WALK IN SUMMER. 

The wretclic'd man in vain attempts, In vain, 

Powerless his voice as in a fearful dream — 

Not so his hand; he strikes a flint, — a blaze 

Mounts from the ready heap of Avither'd leaves : 

The music ceases; accents harsh succeed, 

Harsh, but most grateful ; doA\Tiward drop the sails 

Ingulf'd the anchor sinks; the boat is launch'd ; 

But cautious lies aloof till morning dawn : 

Oh then the transport of the man, unus'd 

To other human voice beside his own, — 

His native tongue to hear! he breathes at home, 

Though earth's diameter is interjDos'd. 

Of perils of the sea he has no dread. 

Full well assur'd the mission'd bark is safe. 

Held in the hollow of the Alihgiity's Hand. 



A SABBATH WALK IN SUMMER. 



Delightful is this loneliness; it calms 
My heart; pleasant the cool beneath these elms, 
That throw across the stream a moveless shade. 
Here Nature in her midnoon whisper speaks : 
How peaceful every sound! the ring-dove's plaint, 
Moan'd from the t■^^•ilight centre of the grove, 
While every other woodland lay is mute, 
Save when the wren flits from her down-coved nest, 
And from the root-sprigs trills her ditty clear, — 
The grasshopper's oft pausing chirp, — the buzz, 
Angrily shrill, of moss-entangled bee, 
206 



'.^^v 




That, soon as loos'd, booms with full twang away,- 
The sudden rushing of the minnow shoal, 
Scar'd from the shallows by my passing tread. 
Dimpling the water glides, Avith here and there 
A glossy fly, skimming in circlets gay 
The treacherous surface, while the quick-eyed trout 
Watches his time to spring; or, from above, 
207 



A SABBATH WALK IN SUMMER. 

Some feather'd dam, piu'veyiiig 'inong the boughs, 

Darts from her perch, and to her plumeless brood 

Bears off tlie prize : — sad emblem of man's lot ! 

He, giddy insect, from his native leaf, 

(Where safe and happily he might have lurk'd.) 

Elate upon ambition's gaudy wings, 

Forgetful of his origin, and, Avorse, 

Unthinking of his end, flies to tlie stream ; 

And if from hostile vigilance he 'scape, 

Buoyant he flutters but a little while, 

IMistakes the inverted image of the sky 

For heaven itself, and, sinking, meets his fate. 

Now, let me trace the stream up to its source 

Among the hUls ; its runnel by degrees 

Diminishing, the murmur turns a tinkle. 

Closer and closer still the banks approach, 

Tangled so thick with pleaching bramble-shoots, 

With brier, and hazel branch, and hawthorn spray. 

That, fain to quit the dingle, glad I mount 

Into the open air ; grateful the breeze 

That fans my throbbing temples ! smiles the plain 

Spread Avide below : how sweet the placid a iew ! 

But, oh ! more sweet the thought, heart-soothing thought. 

That thousand and ten thousands of the sons 

Of toil partake this day the common joy 

Of rest, of peace, of viewing hill and dale. 

Of breathing in the silence of the woods. 

And blessing Him who gave the Sabbath-day. 

Yes, my heart flutters with a freer throb. 

To think that now the townsman wanders forth 

Among the fields and meadows, to enjoy 

The coolness of the day's decline ; to see 

His children sport around, and simply pull 

The floAver and Avced promiscuous, as a boon, 

Which proudly in his breast they smiling fix. 



208 



GRAHAME. 

Again 1 turn me to the hill, and trace 
The wizard stream, now scarce to be discern'd ; 
Woodless its banks, but green with ferny leaves, 
And thinly strcAv'd with heath-bells up and down. 

Now, when the do"\\Tiward sun has left the glens. 
Each mountain's rugged lineaments are traced 
Upon the adverse slope, where stalks gigantic 
The shepherd's shadow thrown across the chasm. 
As on the topmost ridge he homeward hies. 
How deep the hush ! the torrent's channel, dry. 
Presents a stony steep, the echo's haunt. 
But hark, a plaintive sound floating along! 
'Tis from yon heath-roof 'd shielin; now it dies 
Away, now rises full ; it is the song 
Which He who listens to the halleluias 
Of choiring Seraphim delights to hear ; 
It is the music of the heart, the voice 
Of venerable age, — of guileless youth, 
In kindly circle seated on the ground 
Before their wicker door. Behold the man! 
The grandsire and the samt ; his silvery locks 
Beam in the parting ray; before him lies, 
Upon the smooth-cropt sward, the open Book. 
His comfort, stay, and ever-new delight ; 
AVhile heedless, at his side, the lisping boy 
Fondles the lamb that nightly shares his coucli. 



209 



BLOOMFIELD. 



LAMBS AT PLAY. 



Loosed from the winding lane, n joj-ful throng, 

See o'er j^on pasture how they pour along! 

Giles round their boundaries takes his usual stroll, 

Sees every gate secur'd, and fences whole : 

High fences, jiroud to charm the gazing eye. 

Where many a nestling first essays to fly ; 

^Miere blows the woodbine, faintly streak' d with rc( 

And rests on every bough its tender head ; 

Round the young ash its twining branches meet. 

Or cro\A^l the hawthorn with its odour sweet. 

Say, ye that know, ye who have felt and seen 

Spring's morning smiles, and soul-enlivening green, 

Sa}', did you give the thrilling transport way? 

Did your eye brighten, when young lambs at play 

Leap'd o'er your path with animated pride, 

Or grazed in merry clusters by your side ? 

Ye who can smile, to wisdom no disgrace. 

At the ai'ch meaning of a kitten's face ; 

If spotless innocence, and infant mirth, 

Excites to praise, or gives reflection birth ; 

In shades like these pursue your favourite joy, 

Midst Nature's revels, sports that never cloy. 

A few begin a short but vigorous race, 
And indolence, abash' d, soon flies the place : 
Thus challeng'd forth, see thither one by one. 
From eveiy side assembling playmates run ; 
210 




A thousand wily antics mark their stay, 
A starting crowd impatient of delay. 
Like the fond dove, from fearfnl prison freed, 
Each seems to say, " Come, let vis tiy our speed ;' 
Away they scour, impetuous, ardent, strong, 
The green turf trembling as they bound along ; 
Adown the slope, then up the hillock climb, 
Where every mole-hill is a bed of thyme. 
There panting stop ; yet scarcely can refrain ; 
A bird, a leaf, will set them off again : 
Or, if a gale with strength unusual blow, 
Scattering the Avild-brier roses into snow. 
Their little limbs increasing efforts try, 
Tike the torn flower the foir assemblage fl}-. 

211 



I'HE FARMER'S BOY IN THE FIELDS. 



THE FARMER'S BOY IN THE FIELDS. 



Shot up from broad rank blades that droop below. 
The nodding Avheat-ear forms a graceful bow. 
With milky kernels starting full, Aveigh'd down, 
Ere yet the sun hath tinged its head with brown ; 
Whilst thousands in a flock, for ever gay, 
Loud-chirping sparrows welcome in the day, 
And from the mazes of the leafy thorn 
Drop one by one upon the bending corn. 
Giles with a pole assails their close retreats, 
And round the grass-grown dewy border beats ; 
On cither side completely overspread, 
Here branches bend, there corn o'ertops his head. 
Green covert, hail ! for thro' the varying year 
No hours so sweet, no scene to him so dear. 
Here Wisdom's placid eye delighted sees 
His frequent intervals of lonely ease, 
And with one ray his infant soul inspires, 
Just kindling there her never-dying fires, 
Whence solitude derives peculiar charms. 
And heaven-directed thought his bosom warms. 
Just where the parting bough's light shadows play, 
Scarce in the shade, nor in the scorching da}-, 
Stretch'd on the turf he lies, a peopled bed. 
Where swarming insects creep around his head. 
The small dust-colour'd beetle climbs with pain 
O'er the smooth plantain leaf, a spacious plain ! 
Thence higher still, by countless steps convey'd. 
He gains the summit of a shiv'ring blade, 
And flirts his filmy wings, and looks around. 
Exulting in his distance from the ground. 
212 




' I'^Ai///:^-:^^^^"' 



The tender speckled moth here dancing seen, 
The vaulting grasshopper of glossy green, 
And all prolific Summer's sporting train, 
Their little lives by various powers sustain. 
But what can unassisted vision do 1 
What, but recoil where most it would pursue ; " 
His patient gaze but finish with a sigh, 
When music Avaking speaks the sky-lark nigh ! 
273 



THE FAKMEK'S BOY IN THE FIELDS. 

.Just starting from the corn she cheerly sings, 
And trusts with conscious pride her downy wings; 
Still louder breathes, and in the face of day 
Mounts up, and calls on Giles to mark her way. 
Close to his eyes his hat he instant bends, 
And forms a friendly telescope, that lends 
Just aid enough to dull the glaring light, 
And place the wandering bird before his sight; 
Yet oft beneath a cloud she sweeps along, 
Lost for awhile, yet pours her varied song. 
He views the spot, and as the cloud moves by, 
Again she stretches up the clear blue sky; 
Her form, her motion, undistinguish'd quite, 
Save when she wheels direct from shade to light: 
The fluttering songstress a mere speck became, 
Like fancy's floating bubbles in a dream; 
He sees her yet, but yielding to repose, 
Unwittingly his jaded eyelids close. 
Delicious sleep! From sleep who could forbear, 
With no more guilt than Giles, and no more care ? 
Peace o'er his slumbers waves her guardian wing. 
Nor Conscience once disturbs him Avith a sting: 
He wakes refresh'd from every trivial pain. 
And takes his pole and brushes round again. 



214 



ELLIOTT. 



BURNS. 

That heaven's belov'd die early, 

Prophetic Pity mourns; 
IJut old as Truth, although in youth, 

Died giant-hearted Burns. 

Oil that I were the daisy 

That sank beneath his plough, 
Or, " neighbour meet," that " skylark sweet !" 

Say, are they nothuig now? 

That mouse, "our fellow mortal," 

Lives deep in Nature's heart ; 
Like earth and sky, it cannot die 

TUl earth and sky depart. 

Thy Burns, child-honour'd Scotland! 

Is many minds in one ; 
With thought on thought, the name is fraught. 

Of glory's peasant son. 

Thy Chaucer is thy Milton, 

And might have been thy Tell; 
As Hampden fought, thy Sidney wrote. 

And would have fought as well. 

Be proud, man-childed Scotland ! 

Of earth's unpolished gem ; 
And "Bonny Doon," and "heaven aboon." 

For Burns hath hallowed them. 
2ir> 



A POET'S EPITAPH. 

lie proud, though sin-dishonour'd, 

And grief baptized thy child ; 
As rivers run, in shade and sun, 

He ran his courses wild. 

(rrieve not, though savage forests 

Look'd grimly on the wave, 
Where dim-eyed flowers and shaded bowers. 

Seem'd living in the grave. 

(brieve not, though, by the torrent, 

Its headlong course was riven, 
When o'er it came, in clouds and flamc» 

Niagara from heaven ! 

For sometimes gently flowing, 
And sometimes chafed to foam, 

O'er slack and deep, by wood and stee}!. 
He sought his heavenly home. 



A POET'S EPITAPH. 



Stop, Mortal ! Here thy brother lies, 

The Poet of the ^xior ; 
His books were rivers, woods, and skies, 

The meadow and the moor ; 
His teachers were the torn heart's Avail, 

The tyrant and the slave. 
The street, the factory, the jail. 

The palace — and the grave ! 
Sin met thy brother every Avhcre ! 

And is thy brother blamed? 
21G 



ELLIOTT. 

From passion, danger, doubt, and care, 

He no exemption claim'd. 
The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm 

He fear'd to scorn or hate ; 
But, honouring in a peasant's form 

The equal of the great. 
He bless'd the Steward, whose Avealth make^ 

The poor man's little more ; 
Yet loath'd the haughty wretch that takes 

From plunder'd labovn^'s store. 
A hand to do, a head to plan, 

A heart to feel and dare — 
Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man 

Who drew them as they are. 



SPRING 



.Vgain the violet of our early days 

Drinks beauteous azure from the golden sun, 
And kindles into fragrance at his blaze ; 

The streams, rejoic'd that Winter's work is done, 

Talk of to-morrow's cowslips, as they run. 
Wild apple, thou art blushing into bloom! 

Thy leaves are coming, snowy-blossom'd thorn ! 
Wake, buried lily ! spirit, quit thy tomb ! 

And thou, shade-loving hyacinth, be born ! 

Then, haste, sweet rose! sweet woodbine, h}Tnn the morn. 
Whose dew-drops shall illume with pearly light 

Each grassy blade that thick embattled stands 
From sea to sea, while daisies infinite 

Uplift in praise their little glowing hands. 

O'er every hill that under heav'n exjiande. 
217 




^'ff^'/mnu 



^.=-l-_ x4 '^ - ^,f^^M' vS^-^^' 



MOOEE. 
THE LAMENT OF THE PERI FOR HINDA. 

Fareavell, — farewell to thee, Araby's daughter 1 
(Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea,) 

No pearl ever lay, under Oman's green water, 
IMore pure in its shell than thy Spirit in thee. 

Oh ! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing. 
How light was thy heart till love's witcheiy came, 

Like the wind of the South o'er a summer lute bloA^•in,i 
Aiid hush'd all its music and withcr'd its frame ! 



But long, upon Araby's green sunny highlands, 
Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom 

218 



MOORE. 

Of her, who lies sleepuig among the Pearl Islands, 
With nought but the sea-star to light up her tomb. 

And still, when the merry date-season is buniing. 

And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old. 

The happiest there, from their pastime returning, 
At sunset, will weep when thy story is told. 

The young village-maid, when with flowers slie dresses 
Her dark flowing hair for some festival day. 

Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses, 
She mournfully turns from the mii'ror away. 

Nor shall Iran, belov'd of her Hero! forget thee — 
Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start. 

Close, close by the side of that Hero she'll set thee, 
Embalm'd in the innermost shrine of her heart. 

Farewell — be it ours to embellish thy pillow 

With every thing beauteous that grows in the deep ; 

Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow 
Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep. 

Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber 
That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept ; 

With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreath'd chamber, 
We, Peris of Ocean, by moonlight have slept. 

We'll dive Avhere the gardens of coral lie darkling. 
And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head ; 

We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian are sparkling, 
And gather their gold to strew over thy bed. 

Farewell — farewell — until Pity's sweet fountain 
Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave, 

They'll Aveep for the Chieftain Avho died on that mountain. 
They'll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in this wave. 

219 



NOURMAHAL. 
NOURMAHAL. 

THE EEAUTV OF EXPRESSION'. 

There's a beauty, for ever unchangingly bright, 
Like the long sunny lapse of a summer day's light, 
Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender, 
Till Love falls asleep in the sameness of splendour. 
This was not the beauty, — oh ! nothing like this, 
That to young Noukmahal gave such magic of bliss ; 
But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays 
Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days, 
Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies 
Fi'om the lips to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes, 
Now melting in mist, and now breaking in gleams. 
Like the glimpses a saint hath of Heav'n in his dreams ! 
When pensive, it seem'd as if that very grace. 
That charm of all others, was born with her face; 
And when angry — for ev'n in the tranquillest climes 
Light breezes will ruffle the blossoms sometimes — 
The short, passing anger but seem'd to awaken 
New beauty, like flow'rs that are sweetest when shaken. 
If tenderness touch'd her, the dark of her eye 
At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye. 
From the depth of whose shadow, like holy revealings 
From innermost shrines, came the light of her feelings! 
Then her mirth — oh ! 'twas sportive as ever took wing 
From the heart with a burst, like the wild-bird in spring 
Illum'd by a wit that would fascinate sages, 
Yet playful as Peris just loos'd from their cages, 
AVliile her laugh, full of life, without any control 
Hut the sweet one of gi-acefulness, rung from her soul ; 
And where it most sparkled no glance could discover, 
In lip, cheek, or eyes, for she brighten'd all over, — 
Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon, 
Wlion it breaks into dimples and laughs in the sun. 

220 



WOLFE. 

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note. 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly, at dead of night, 
The sods with our bayonets turning, 
By the struggling moon-beam's misty light. 
And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless cofRn enclosed his breast. 
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; 
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest. 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers Ave said, 

.Ynd we spoke not a word of soi'roAA' ; 

And we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead. 

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed. 

And smooth'd down his lonely i)illow, 

Tliat the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, 

And we far away on the billow ! 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone. 

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; — „ 

But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 

In the grave Avhere a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done, 
AVlien the clock struck the hour for retiring: 

221 




And we heard the distant and random gun 
Of the enemy sullenly firing. 



Slowly and sadly Ave laid him down, 
From the field of his fame fresh and gory; 
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone- 
But Ave left him alone with his glory! 

222 



CUNNINGHAM. 



THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG. 



On! my love's like the steadfast sun, 
Or streams that deepen as they run. 
Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years, 
Nor moments between light and tears. 
Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain. 
Nor dreams of glory dream'd in vain ; 
Nor mirth, nor sweetest song that flows 
To sober joys, and softer woes, 
Can make my heart or fancy flee. 
One moment, my sweet wife, from thee. 

Even while I muse, I see thee sit 

In maiden bloom and matron Avit ; 

Fair, gentle as Avhen first I sued 

Ye seem, but of sedater mood ; 

Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee, 

As when, beneath Arbigland tree, 

"We stay'd and woo'd, and thought the moon 

Set on the sea an hour too soon. 

Or linger'd 'mid the falling dew, 

When looks were fond, and words were few- 

Though I see smiling at my feet 
Five sons and one fair daughter sweet, 
And time and care and birthtime woes 
Have dimm'd thine eye, and touch'd thy rose, 



THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG. 

To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong 
Whate'er charms me in tale or song. 
^V^len Avords descend, like dews unsought, 
With gleams of deep enthusiast thought, 
And Fancy in her heaven flies free, 
They come, my love, they come from thee. 

Oh, when more thought we gave, of old, 
To silver, than some give to gold, 
'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er 
How Ave should deck our humble boAver ; 
'TAA'as SAA^eet to pull, in hope, Avith thee. 
The golden fruit of Fortune's tree ; 
And SAveeter still to choose and tAvine 
A garland for that brow of thine : 
A song- wreath Avhich may grace my Jean, 
WliUe rivers Aoaa', and woods groAv green. 

At times there come, as come there ought. 
GraA^e moments of sedater thought, 
When Fortune froAvns, nor lends our night 
One gleam of her inconstant light ; 
And Hope, that decks the peasant's boAver, 
Shines like a rainbow through the shoAver, 
Oh then I see, Avhile seated nigh, 
A mother's heart shine in thine eye, 
And proud resolve and purpose meek 
Speak of thee more than Avords can speak. 
T think this wedded life of mine 
The best of all things not divine. 



224 






A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. 



A AVET sheet and a flowing sea, 

A wind that follows fast, 
And fills the white and rustling sail, 

And bends the gallant mast ; 
And bends the gallant mast, my boys, 

While, like the eagle free, 



A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. 

Away the good ship flies, and leaves 
Old England on the lee. 

"Oh for a soft and gentle wind!" 

I heard a fair one cry ; 
But give to me the snoring breeze, 

And white Avaves heaving high ; 
And white waves heaving high, my boys, 

The good ship tight and free. — 
The world of waters is our home, 

And merry men are we. 

There's tempest in yon horned moon. 

And lightning in yon cloud ; 
And hark the music, mariners! 

The wind is piping loud ; 
The wind is piping loud, my boys, 

The lightning flashing free — 
AVliile the hollow oak our palace is. 

Our heritage the sea. 



22a 



WALKER. 
TO A GIRL IN HER THIRTEENTH YEAR. 

TiiY smiles, thy talk, thy aimless plays. 

So beautiful approve thee, 
So winning light are all thy ways, 

I cannot choose but love thee. 
Thy balmy breath upon my brow 

Is like the summer air, 
As o'er my cheek thou leanest now. 

To plant a soft kiss there. 

Thy steps are dancing toward the bound 

Hetween the child and woman, 
And thoughts and feelings more profound. 

And other years are coming : 
And thou shalt be more deeply fair, 

More precious to the heart, 
But never canst thou be again 

That lovely thing thou art ! 

And youth shall pass, with all the Inood 

Of fancy-fed affection ; 
And grief shall come with womanhood, 

And waken cold reflection. 
Thou'lt learn to toil, and watch, and weep 

O'er pleasures unreturning, 
l^ike one who wakes from pleasant sleep 

Unto the cares of morning. 

Nay, say not so ! nor cloud the sun 

Of joyous expectation, 
Ordain'd to bless the little one, 

Tlie freshling of creation ! 
227 




Xor doubt that He who thus cloth feed 
Her early lamp with gladness, 

Will be her present Help in need, 
Her Comforter in sadness. 



Smile on, then, little Avinsome thing ! 

All rich in Nature's treasure. 
Thou hast Avithin thy heart a spi'ing 

Of self-renewing pleasure. 
Smile on, fair child, and take thy fill 

Of mirth, till time shall end it ; 
"Tis Nature's Avise and gentle Avill — 

And aaIio shall reprehend it '? 
228 



HOGG. 



THE RAPTURE OF KILMENY. 



Bonny Kilmcny gaed up the glen ; 
I5ut it wasna, to meet Duneira's men, 
Noi" the rosy monk of the isle to see, 
For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be- 
lt was only to hear the Yorlin sing, 
And pu' the cress-flower round the spring ; 
The scarlet hypp and the hindberrye. 
And the nut that hangs frae the hazel-tree ; 
For Kilmeny was pure as pui-e could be. 
Hut lang may her minny look o'er the wa\ 
And lang may she seek i' the green-wood slinw ; 
Lang the laird of Duneira blame. 
And lang, lang greet, or Kilmeny come hanu- ! 

When many a day had come and tied, 
"NVlien grief grew calm, and hope was dead, 
AVhen mass for Kilmeny's soul had been sung, 
When the bedesman had pray'd, and the dead-boll run 
Late, late in a gloamin' when all was still. 
When the fringe was red on the westlin' hill. 
The wood was sere, the moon i' the wane, 
The reek o' the cot hung over the plain. 
Like a little wee cloud in the world its Innc : 
AVlien the ingle low\l with an ciry lemo. 

229 



THE RAPTURE OF KILMENY. 

Late, late ia the gloamin' Kilmeny came hame 1 

" Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been ? 

Lang liac we sought baith holt and den ; 

IJy linn, by ford, by green-wood tree. 

Yet you are halesome and Mr to see. 

Where gat you that joup o' the lily seheen ? 

That bonny snood o' the birk sae green ? 

And these roses, the fairest that ever were seen ? 

Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been ?" 

Kilmeny look'd up with a lovely grace, 

But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny's face ; 

As still was her look, and as still was her e'e. 

As the stillness that lay on the cmerant lea. 

Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea. 

For Kilmeny had been she knew not where, 

And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare ; 

Kilmeny had been where the cock never crew, 

Where the rain never fell, and the wind never blew 

But it seem'd as the harp of the sky had rung. 

And the airs of heaven play'd round her tongue, 

When she spake of the lovely forms she had seen, 

And a land where sin had never been ; 

A land of love and a land of light, 

Withouten sun, or moon, or night; 

Where the river swa'd a living stream, 

And the light a pure celestial beam : 

The land of vision it would seem, 

A still, an evei'lasting dream. 

In yon green-wood there is a walk, 

And in that waik there is a Avene, 

And in that wene there is a maike, 

That neither has flesh, blood, nor bane ; 

And down in yon green-wood he Avalks liis lane. 

In that green wene Kilmeny lay. 
Her bosom happ'd wi' the floAverets gay : 

230 



HOGG. 

lUit the air was soft, and the silence deep, 
And bonny Kihneny fell sound asleep ; 
She kend nae mair, nor open'd her e'e, 
Till Avaked by the hymns of a far countrye. 
She 'waken'd on a couch of the silk sae slim, 
All striped wi' the bars of the rainbow's rim ; 
And lovely beings round were rife. 
Who erst had travelled mortal life ; 
And aye they smiled, and 'gan to speer, 
"What spirit has brought this mortal here?" — 
They clasped her waist and her hands sae fair, 
They kissed her cheek, and they kemed her hair, 
And round came many a blooming fere. 
Saying, "Bonny Kilmeny, ye' re welcome here! 

" Oh, would the fairest of mortal kind 

Aye keep the holy truths in mind 

That kindred spirits their motions see, 

Who watch their ways with anxious e'e, 

And grieve for the guilt of humanitye ! 

Oh, sweet to Heaven the maiden's prayer. 

And the sigh that heaves a bosom sae fair! 

And dear to Heaven the words of truth. 

And the praise of virtue frae beauty's month ! 

And dear to the viewless forms of air. 

The minds that kythe as the body fair ! 

O bonny Kilmeny ! free frae stain. 

If ever you seek the w^orld again — 

That Avorld of sin, of sorrow, and fear — 

Oh, tell of the joys that are waiting here ; 

And tell of the signs you shall shortly see ; 

Of the times that are now, and the times that shall be, 

They lifted Kilmeny, they led her away. 
And she Avalk'd in the light of a sunless day:. 
The sky was a dome of crystal bright, 

231 




TliQ fountain of vision, and fountain of light ; 

The emerald fields were of dazzling glow, 

And the flowers of everlasting blow. 

Then deep in the stream her body they laid, 

That her youth and beauty never might ftide : 

And they smiled on heaven, when they saw her lie 

In the stream of life that wander'd by. 

And she heard a song, she heard it sung. 

She kend not where; but sae sweetly it rung, 

It fell on her ear like a dream of the morn. 



HOGG. 

•' Oh ! blest be the day Kihiieny was born I 
Now shall the land of the spirits see, 
Now shall it ken what a woman may be ! 
The sun that shines on the world sae bright, 
A borrow'd gleid of the fountain of light ; 
And the moon that sleeks the sky sae dun. 
Like a gouden bow, or a beamless sun, 
Shall wear away, and be seen nae mair. 
And the angels shall miss them travelling the air. 
But lang, lang after baith night and day, 
Wlien the sun and the world have elyed away ; 
Wlien the sinner has gane to his waesome doom, 
Kilmeny shall smile in eternal bloom !" 

Then Kilmeny begg'd again to see 

The friends she had left in her own countrye, 

To tell of the place where she had been. 

And the glories that lay in the land unseen ; 

To warn the living maidens fair. 

The loved of Heaven, the spirits' care. 

That all whose minds xmmeled remain 

Shall bloom in beauty when time is gane. 

With distant music, soft and deep, 
They lull'd Kilmeny sound asleep ; 
And when she awakened, she lay her lane, 
All happed with flowers in the green-wood wene. 
When seven long years were come and fled ; 
When grief w^as calm, and hope was dead ; 
When scarce was remember'd Kilmeny's name. 
Late, late in a gloamin' Kilmeny came hame ! 
And oh, her beauty was fair to see. 
But still and steadfast was her e'e ! 
Such beauty bard may never declare. 
For there was no pride nor passion there ; 
And the soft desire of maiden's een 

2,33 



THE RAPTURE OF KILMENY. 

In thai mild face could never be seen. 
Her seyniar was the lily flower, 
And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower, 
And her voice like the distant melodye, 
That floats along the twilifrht sea. 







But she loved to raikc the lanely jxlen, 
And kecped afor frae the haunts of men ; 
Iler holy hymns unheard to sing, 
To suck the flowers, and drink the spring, 
lint Avherever her peaceful form appeared, 
I'he wild beasts of the hill were cheerM; 
23-t 



HOGG. 

The wolf pljiy'd blithely round the field, 

The lordly bison low'd and kneel'd;. 

The dun deer woo'd with manner bland, 

And cower'd aneath her lily hand. 

And when at even the woodlands rung. 

When hymns of other worlds she sung 

In ecstasy of sweet devotion, 

Oh, then the glen was all in motion ! 

The AA'ild beasts of the forest came. 

Broke from their bughts and faulds the tame. 

And goved around, charmed and amazed ; 

Even the dull cattle crooned and gazed. 

And murmur'd, and look'd with anxious pain 

For something the mystery to explain. 

The buzzard came with the throstle -cock ; 

The corby left her houf in the rock ; 

The blackbird alang wi' the eagle flew; 

The hind came tripping o'er the dew ; 

The wolf and tlie kid their raikc began, 

And the tod, and the lamb, and the leveret ran ; 

The hawk and the hern attour them hung, 

And the merl and the mavis forhooyed their young; 

And all in a peaceful ring were luuTd ; — 

It Avas like an eve in a sinless Avorld ! 

When a month and a day had come and gane, 
Kilmeny sought the green-wood wene ; 
There laid her down on the leaves sae green, 
And Kilmeny on earth was never mair seen. 
But O, the words that fell from her mouth, 
Wei'e words of wonder, and words of truth ! 
But all the land were in fear and dread, 
F'or they kendna whether she was living or . dead ; 
It wasna her hame, and she couldna remain ; 
She left this world of sorrow and pain, 
And return'd to the Land of Thought again. 

23r> 



SPEAGUE. 
THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS. 

ADDRESSED TO TWO SWALLOWS THAT FLEW INTO THE CHAUNCEV 
PLACE CHURCH DURING DIVINE SERVICE. 

Gay, guiltless pair, 
What seek ye from the fields of heaven? 

Ye have no need of prayer. 
Ye have no sins to be forgiven. 

Why perch ye here. 
Where mortals to their Maker bend? 

Can yom' pure spirits fear 
Tlie God ye never could offend? 

Ye never kneAv 
The crimes for which we come to weep. 

Penance is not for you. 
Blessed wanderers of the xipper deep- 
To you 'tis given 
To wake sweet Nature's untaught lays ; 

Beneath the arch of heaven 
To chirp away a life of praise. 

Then spread each wing, 
Far, far above, o'er the lakes and lands. 

And join the choirs that sing 
In yon blue dome not reared with IkukIs. 

Or, if ye stay, 
To note the consecrated hour. 

Teach me the airy way, 
And let me try your envied power. 
23G 



SrilAGUE. 

Above tlie crowd, 
Oil upward wings could I but fly, 
I'd bathe in yon bright cloud, 
And seek the stars that gem the sky. 

'Twere Heaven indeed 
Through fields of trackless light to soar, 

On Nature's charms to feed, 
And Nature's own great God adore. 



THE BROTHERS. 

We are but two— the others sleep 
Through Death's untroubled night ; 

AVe are but two — O, let us keep 
The link that binds us bright! 

Heart leaps to heart— the sacred flood 
That warms us is the same; 

That good old man— his honest blood 
Alike Ave fondly claim. 

We in one mother's arms Avere locked- 

Long be her love repaid; 
In the same cradle we were rocked, 

Round the same hearth we played. 

Our boyish sports were all the same, 
Each little joy and Avoe ; — 

Let manhood keep alive the flame. 
Lit up so long ago. 

We are but two— be that the band 

To hold lis till Avc die; 
Shoulder to shoulder let us stand, 

Till side by side we lie. 




HEMANS. 



THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO, 



TiiEiiE was music on tlie luidiiiglit 
From a royal fane it roll'd; 
238 



HEMANS. 

And a mighty bell, each pauf^e between, < 

Sternly and slowly tolFd. 
Strange was their mingling in the sky. 

It hnsh'd the listener's breath ; 
For the music spoke of triumph high. 

The lonely bell, of death ! 

There was hurrying through the midnight. 

A sound of many feet ; 
l)Ut they fell Avith a muffled fearfulness 

Along the shadowy street : 
And softer, fainter grew their tread. 

As it near'd the minster gate, 
Whence a broad and solemn light was shed 

From a scene of royal state. 

Full glow'd the strong red radiance 

In the centre of the nave, 
Where thp folds of a purple canopy 

Swept down in many a wave ; 
Loading the marble pavement old 

With a weight of gorgeous gloom ; 
For something lay 'midst their fretted gold. 

Like a shadow of the tomb. 

And within that rich pavilion. 

High on a glittering throne, 
A woman's form sat silently, 

'Midst the glare of light alone. 
Her jewell'd robes fell strangely still — 

The drapery on her breast 
Seem'd with no pulse beneath to thrill. 

So stonelike was its rest ! 

13 ut a peal of lordly music 
Shook e'en the dust below. 
239 



THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTliO. 

AVliC'ii the burning gold of the diiuleni 

W'cifi set on her pallid brow ! 
Then died away that haughty sound, 

And from the encircling band 
Stepp'd prince and chief, 'midst the hush profound. 

With homage to her hand. 

AMiy pass'd a faint, cold shuddering 

Over each martial frame, 
As one by one, to touch that hand. 

Noble and leader came? 
Was not the settled aspect fair? 

Did not a queenly grace, 
Under the parted ebon hair, 

Sit on the pale, still face? 

Death I death! canst thou be lovely 

Unto the eye of life? 
Is not each pulse of the quick high breast 

With thy cold mien at strife? — 
It was a strange and feai-ful sight. 

The crown upon that head, 
The glorious robes, and the blaze of light. 

All gather'd round the Dead ! 

And beside her stood in silence 

One Avith a brow as pale, 
And Avhite lips rigidly comprcss'd. 

Lest the strong heart should fail : 
King Pedro, with a jealous eye. 

Watching the homage done 
By the land's flower and chivalry 

To her, his martyr'd one. 

But on the face he looked not, 

AYhich once his star had been ; 
• 240 



HEMANS. 

To every form his glance was turn'd, 

Save of the breathless queen : 
Though something, won from the grave's embrace, 

Of her beauty still was there, 
Its hues Avere all of that shadowy place, 

It was not for lain to bear. 

Alas! the crown, the sceptre, 

The treasures of the earth, 
And the priceless love that pour'd those gifts, 

Alike of wasted worth ! 
The rites are closed : — bear back the dead 

Unto the chamber deep! 
Lay down again the royal head, 

Dust with the dust to sleep ! 

There is music on the midnight — 

A requiem sad and slow, 
As the mourners through the sounding aisle 

In dark procession go ; 
And the ring of state, and the starry crown, 

And all the rich array, 
Are borne to the house of silence down, 

"With her, that queen of clay ! 

And tearlessly and firmly 

King Pedro led the train ; 
But his face Avas Avrapt in his folding robe. 

When they lower'd the dust again. 
'Tis hush'd at last the tomb above — 

Hymns die, and steps depart : 
Who call'd thee strong as Death, O Love ? 

Mightier thou Avast and art. 



241 



THE MESSAGE TO THE DEAD. 



THE MESSAGE TO THE DEAD. 

Tiiou 'rt passing hence, my brother! 

O my earliest friend, farewell! 
Thou 'rt leaving me, Avithout thy voice. 

In a lonely home to dwell ; 
And from the hills, and from the hearth. 

Andyfrom the household tree. 
With thee departs the lingering mirth, 

The brightness goes with thee. 

But thou, my friend, my brother ! 

Thou 'rt speeding to the shore 
Where the dirge-like tone of parting woi'ds 

Shall smite the .soul no more ! 
And thou wilt see our holy dead, 

The lost on earth and main : 
Into the sheaf of kindred hearts 

Thou wilt be bound again ! 

Tell, then, our friend of bo}'hood 

That yet his name is heard 
On the blue mountains, whence his youth 

Pass'd like a swift, bright bird. 
The light of his exulting brow. 

The vision of his glee. 
Are on me still — Oh! still I trust 

That smile again to see. 

And tell our fair young sister, 

The rose cut down in spring, 
Tliat yet my gushing soul is fill'd 

With lays she lov'd to sing. 
242 



HEMANS. 

Her soft deep eyes look througli my dreams, 

Tender and sadly sweet ; — 
Tell her my heart within me burns 

Once more that gaze to meet. 

And tell our whito-hair'd father, 

That in the paths he trod, 
The child he lov'd, the last on earth, 

Yet walks and worships God. 
Say, that his last fond blessing yet 

Rests on my soul like dew, 
And by its hallowing might I trust 

Once more his face to view. 

And tell our gentle mother, 

That on her grave I pour 
The sorrows of my spirit forth. 

As on her breast of yore. 
Happy thou art that soon, how soon. 

Our good and bright will see ! 
brother, brother! may I dwell, 

Erelong, Avith them and thee ! 



THE RETURN. 

"Hast thou come with the heart of thy childhood back? 
The free, the pure, the kindf 
— So murmur'd the trees in my homeward track. 
As they play'd to the mountain-wind. 

" Hath thy soul been true to its early love f 
Whisper'd my native streams ; 
243 



THE RETURN. 

" Hath the spirit, nursed amidst hill and grove, 
Still revered its first high dreams?" 

" Hast thou borne in thy bosom the holy prayer 
Of the child in his parent-halls ?" 
Thus breath'd a voice on the thrilling air. 
From the old ancestral walls. 

'' Hast thou kept thy faith with the faithful dead. 
Whose place of rest is nigh? 
With the father's blessing o'er thee shed, 
AVith the mother's trusting eye?" 

Then my tears gush'd forth in sudden rain, 

As I answer' d — " O ye shades ! 
I bring not my childhood's heart again 

To the freedom of your glades. 

'' I have turn'd from my first pure love aside, 
O bright and happy streams ! 
Light after light, in my soul have died 
The day-spring's glorious dreams. 

"And the holy prayer from my thoughts hath pass'd- 
The prayer at my mother's knee ; 
Darken'd and troubled I come at last, 
Home of my boyish glee ! 

"But I bear from my childhood a gift of tears, 
To soften and atone ; 
And oh! ye scenes of those bless'd years, 
They shall make me again your own." 



244 



MITFORD. 



RIENZI AND HIS DAUGHTER. 

Riemi. Claudia — nay, start not ! • Thou art sad ; to-day 
I found thee sitting idly, 'midst thy maids, 
A pretty, laughing, restless band, who plied 
Quick tongue and nimble finger, mute and pale 
As marble ; those unseeing eyes were fix'd 
On vacant air; and that fair brow was bent 
As sternly, as if the rude stranger. Thought — 
Age-giving, mirth-destroying, pitiless Thought — 
Had knock'd at thy young giddy brain. 

Claudia. Nay, fother, 

Mock not thine own poor Claudia. 

Rien. Claudia used 

To bear a merry heart, with that clear voice. 
Prattling; and that light busy foot astir 
In her small housewifery, the blithest bee 
That ever Avrought in hive. 

Cla. Oh ! mine old home ! 

Rien. "What ails thee, lady-bird? 

Cla. Mine own dear home! 
Father, I love not this new state; these halls. 
Where comfort dies in vastness ; these trim maids, 
Wliose service wearies me. Oh ! mine old home.! 
My quiet, pleasant chamber, with the myrtle 
Woven round the casement; and the cedar by. 
Shading the sun ; my garden overgrown 
With flowers and herbs, thick-set as grass in fields; 

245 




My pretty snow-white doves ; my kindest nurse ; 
And old Camillo. Oh ! mine own dear home ! 

Rien. Why, simple child, thou hast thine old, fond nurse. 
And good Camillo, and shalt have thy doves. 
Thy myrtle flowers, and cedars; a whole province 

246 



MITFORD. 

Laid in a garden, an' thou Avilt. My Claudia, 

Hast thou not learnt thy power? Ask Orient geins, 

Diamonds and sapphires, in rich caskets, wrought 

By cunning goldsmiths ; sigh for rarest birds 

Of farthest Ind, like winged flowers, to flit 

Around thy stately bower; and, at a wish, 

The precious toys shall wait thee. Old Camillo ! 

Thou shalt have nobler servants, emperors, kings, 

Electors, princes ! not a bachelor 

In Christendom but would right proudly kneel 

To my fair daughter. 

Cla. Oh ! mine own dear home ! 

Itien. Wilt have a list to choose from? 
Listen, sweet! 
If the tall cedar, and the branchy myrtle, 
And the white doves, were tell-tales, I would ask them 
^Vllose was the shadow on the sunny wall? 
And if, at eventide, they heard not oft 
A tuneful mandoline, and then a voice, 
Clear in its manly depth, whose tide of song 
O'erwhelm'd the quivering instruments ; and then 
A world of whispers, mix'd with low response, 
Sweet, short, and broken, as divided strains 
Of nightingales. 

Cla. Oh, father! flither! 

Rien. Well ! 

Dost love him, Claudia? 

Cla. Father ! 

Rich. Dost thou love 

Young Angelo? Yes? Saidst thou yes? That heart, 
That throbbing heart of thine, keeps such a coil. 
I cannot hear thy Avords. He is return'd 
To Rome ; he loft thee on mine errand, dear one. 
And now — Is there no casement myrtle-wreath'd. 
No cedar in our courts, to shade to-night 
The lover's song? 

247 



SONG. 

Cla. Oh, father ! father ! 

Rien. Now, 
Back to thy maidens, with a lightcn'd heart, 
Mine own beloved child. Thou shalt be first 
In Rome, as thou art fairest ; never princess 
Brought to the proud Colonna such a dower 
As thou. Young Angelo hath chosen his mate 
From out an eagle's nest. 

Cla. Alas ! alas ! 
I tremble at the height. AYliene'er I think 
Of the hot barons, of the fickle people, 
And the inconstancy of power, I tremble 
For thee, dear father. 

Rien. Tremble ! let them tremble : 
I am their master, Claudia! whom they scorn'd. 
Endured, protected. — Sweet, go dream of love ! 
I am their master, Claudia ! 



SONG. 

Hail to the gentle bride ! the dove 
Pligh nested in the column's crest! 

Oh, welcome as the bird of love, 
Who bore the olive-sign of rest! 

Hail to the gentle bride ! the flower 

Whose garlands round the column twine ! 

Oh, fairer than the citron bower, "^ 

More fragrant than the blossonvd vine ! 

Hail to the gentle bride ! the star 

Whose radiance o'er the column beams ! 

Oh, soft as moonlight seen afar — 
A silver shine on trembling streams ! 
248 




^ ' '^f^^"'^?^'^ 






""^^^j^JT^S^S^^^^- 



f''^- *^ 



SIGOURNEY. 



THE INDIAN SUMMER. 



When was the red man's summer^ 

When the rose 
Hun- its first banner out! When the gray rock, 
Or the brown heath, the radiant kahnia clothed? 
Or when the loiterer by the reedy brooks 
Started to see the proud lobelia glow 
Like living flame? When through the forest gleam d 
The rhododendron? or the fragrant breath 
Of the magnolia swept deliciously 
O'er the half laden nerve? 

No. ^Vhen the groves 
In fleeting colors wrote their own decay, 
And leaves fell eddying on the sharpeu'd blast 
That sang their dirge; when o'er their rustlmg bod 
249 



THE INDIAN SUMMER. 

The red deer sprang, or fled the shrill-voiced quail, 

Heavy of Aving and fearful ; Avhen, with heart 

Foreboding or depress'd, the white man mark'd 

The signs of coming winter: then began 

The Indian's joyous season. Then the haze, 

Soft and illusive as a fairy dream, 

Lapp'd all the landscape in its silvery fold. 

The quiet rivers that were wont to hide 

'Neath shelving banks, beheld their course betraj'd 

By the white mist that o'er their foi'eheads crept, 

While wrapp'd in morning dreams, the sea and sky 

Slept 'neath one curtain, as if both were merged 

In the same element. Slowly the sun, 

And all reluctantly, the spell dissolved 

And then it took upon its parting wing 

A rainbow glory. 

Gorgeous was the time. 
Yet brief as gorgeous. Beautiful to thee. 
Our brother hunter, but to us replete 
AVitli musing thoughts in melancholy train. 
Our joys, alas ! too oft were woe to thee. 
Yet ah, poor Indian ! Avhom we fain would drive 
Both from our hearts, and from thy father's lands. 
The perfect year doth bear thee on its crown, 
And when we would forget, repeat thy name. 



2-.0 



SIGOURNEY. 



THE HOLY DEAD. 



Wlicicfore I praised the dead who are already' dead, more than the liviiij; 
who are yet alive." — Solomon. 



TiiEY dread no storm that lowers, 

No perish' d joys bewail ; 
They pluck no thorn-clad flowers, 

Nor drink of streams that fail: 
There is no tear-drop in their eye, 

No change upon their brow ; 
Their placid bosom heaves no sigh, 

Though all earth's idols bow. 

Who are so gi-eatly blest? 

From whom hath sorrow fled? 
Who share such deep, unbroken rest 

Where all things toil"? The dead ! 
The holy dead. Why weep ye so 

Above yon sable bier? 
Thrice blessed ! they have done with woe, 

The li\ing claim the tear. 

do to their sleeping bowers, 

Deck their low couch of clay 
With earliest spring's soft breathing flowers 

And when they fjide away, 
Think of the amaranthine wreath. 

The garlands never dim, 
And tell me why thou fly'st from death, 

Or hid'st thy friends from liini. 
251 



TALK WITH THE SEA. 

Wo dream, but they awake ; 

Dread visions mar our rest ; 
Tlirough thorns and snares our way we take, 

And yet we mourn the blest ! 
For spirits round the Eternal Throne 

How vain the tears we shed ! 
They are the living, they alone, 

Whom thus Ave call tlie dead. 



TALK WITH THE SEA. 



I SAID Avith a moan, as I roamed alone, 

By the side of the solemn sea, — 
" Oh cast at my feet, Avhich thy billows meet, 

Some token to comfort me. 
'Mid thy surges cold, a ring of gold 

I have lost, Avith an amethyst bright. 
Thou hast locked it so long, in thy casket strong. 

That the rust must have quenched its light. 

" Send a gift, I pray, on thy sheeted spi-ay. 
To solace my drooping mind, 
For Tm sad and grieve, and erelong must leave 

This rolling globe behind." 
Then the Sea answered, " Spoils are mine. 

From many an argosy. 
And pearl-drops sleep in my bosom decj), 
liut naught have I there for thee !" 
252 



SIGOURNEY. 

•' When I mused before, on this rock-bound shore, 

The beautiful walked with me. 
She hath gone to her rest in the churchyard's breast 

Since I saw thee last, thou Sea! 
Restore ! restore ! the smile she wore, 

When her cheek to mine was pressed, 
Give back the voice of the fervent soul 

That could lighten the darkest breast!" 

But the haughty Sea, in its majesty 

Swept onward as before, 
Though a surge in wrath from its rocky patli, 

Shrieked out to the sounding shore — 
"Thou hast asked of our king a harder thing 

Than mortal e'er claimed before. 
For never the wealth of a loving heart, 

Could Ocean or Earth restoi-e." 



253 



HEBER. 



THE PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA. 



AViTii heat o'erlabour'd and the length of way, 
On Ethan's beach the bands of Israel lay. 
'Twas silence all, the sparkling sands along ; 
Save where the locust trill'c) her feeble song, 
Or blended soft in drowsy cadence fell 
The wave's low whisper, or the camel's bell. — • 
'Twas silence all! — the flocks for shelter fly 
Where, waving light, the acacia shadows lie ; 
Or Avhere, from far, the flattering vapours make 
The noontide semblance of a misty lake : 
While the mute swain, in careless safety spread. 
With arms enfolded, and dejected head, 
Dreams o'er his wondrous call, his lineage high, 
And, late rcveal'd, his children's destiny. — 
For, not in vain, in thraldom's darkest hour, 
Had sped from Amram's sons the word of power 
Nor fail'd the dreadful wand, whose godlike sway 
Could lure the locust from her airy way; 
With reptile war assail their proud abodes, 
And mar the giant pomp of Egypt's gods. 
Oh, helpless gods ! who nought avail'd to shield 
From fiery rain your Zoan's favour'd field! — 

254 



HEBER. 

Oh, helpless gods ! who saw the curdled blood 
Taint the pure lotus of your ancient flood, 
And four-fold night the wondering earth enchain, 
\Vliile Memnon's orient harp was heard in vain! — 
Such musings held the tribes, till now the west 
With milder influence on their temples prest; 
And that portentous cloud, Avhich all the day 
Ilung its dark curtain o'er their Aveaiy way, 
(A cloud by day, a friendly flame by night,) 
Roll'd back its misty veil, and kindled into light! — 
Soft fell the eve : — But, ere the day was done, 
Tall waving banners streak'd the level sun ; 
And wide and dark along the horizon red. 
In sandy surge the rising desert spread. — 
" Mark, Israel, mark !" — On that strange sight intent. 
In breathless terror, every eye was bent; 
And busy faction's fast-increasing hum, 
And female voices shriek, "They come! they come!" 
They come, they come, in scintillating show 
O'er the dark mass the brazen lances glow; 
And sandy clouds in countless shapes combine, 
As deepens or extends the long tumultuous line ; — 
And fancy's keener glance e'en now may trace 
The threatening aspects of each mingled race t 
For many a coal-black tribe and cany spear, 
The hireling guards of Misraim's throne, were there. 
From distant Cush they troop'd, a warrior train. 
Siwah's green isle and Sennaar's marly plain : 
On either wing their fiery coursers check 
The parch'd and sinewy sons of Amalek : 
While close behind, inured to feast on blood, 
Deck'd in Behemoth's sijoils, the tall Shangalla strode. 
'Mid blazing helms and bucklers rough with gold. 
Saw ye how swift the scythed chariots roll'd? 
Lo, these are they whom, lords of Afric's fates. 
Old Thebes hath poui-'d through all her hundred gates' 

255 



THE PASSAGE OF THE BED SEA. 

Mother of armies ! — How the emeralds glow'd, 

Where, flushed with power and vengeance, Pharaoh rode ! 

And stolcd in white, those brazen wheels before, 

Osiris' ark his swarthy wizards bore ; 

And, still responsive to the trumpet's crj. 

The priestly sistrum murmur'd — Victory ! — 

Why swell these shouts that rend the desert's gloom ? 

Whom come ye forth to combat ? — warriors, whom ? 

These flocks and herds — this faint and weary train — 

Red from the scourge and recent from the chain ? — 

God of the poor, the poor and friendless save ! 

Giver and Lord of freedom, help the slave ! — 

North, south, and west, the sandy whirlwinds fly, 

The circling horns of Egypt's chivalry. 

On eartli's last margin throng the Aveeping train : 

Their cloudy guide moves on : — '^ And must we swim the main f 

'Mid the light spray their snorting camels stood, 

Nor bath'd a fetlock in the nauseous flood — 

He comes — their leader comes! — the man of God 

O'er the wide waters lifts his mighty rod. 

And onward treads. — The circling weaves retreat, 

In hoarse deep murmurs, from his holy feet ; 

And the chased surges, inly roaring, show 

The hard Avet sand, and coral hills below. 

With limbs that falter, and with hearts that swell, 
Down, down they pass — a steep and slippery dell — 
Around them i*ise, in pristine chaos liurl'd. 
The ancient rocks, the secrets of the world ; 
And flowers that blush beneath the ocean green. 
And caves, the sea-calves' low-roof'd haunt, are seen. 
Down, safely down the narrow pass they tread : 
The beetling Avaters storm above their head : 
While for behind retires the sinking day, 
And fades on Edom's hills its latest ray. 

Yet not from Israel fled the friendly light. 
Or dark to them, or cheerless came the nighl. 

256 



HEBER. 

Still ill their van, along that dreadful road, 

Blazed broad and fierce the brandish'd torch of God. 

Its meteor glare a ten-fold lustre gave, 

On the long mirror of the rosy wave: 

While its blest beams a sun-like heat supply. 

Warm every cheek, and dance in every eye — 

To them alone — for Misraim's wizard train 

Invoke for light their monster-gods in vain : 

Clouds heap'd on clouds their struggling sight confine, 

And ten-fold darkness broods above their line. 

Yet on they fare, by reckless vengeance led, 

And range unconscious through the ocean's bed: 

Till midway now — that strange and fiery form 

Show'd his dread visage lightening through the storm ; 

With withering splendour blasted all their might. 

And break their chariot-wheels, and marr'd their coursers' fiight. 

"Fly, Misraim, fly!" — The ravenous floods they see. 

And, fiercer than the floods, the Deity. 

" Fly, Misraim, fly !" — From Edom's coral strand 

Again the prophet stretch'd his dreadful wand : — 

With one wild crash the thundering waters sweep, 

And all is waves — a dark and lonely deep — 

Yet o'er those lonely waves such murmurs past, 

As mortal wailing swell'd the nightly blast ; 

And strange and sad the Avhispering breezes bore 

The groans of Egypt to Arabia's shore. 

Oil ! welcome came the morn, where Israel stood 
In trustless wonder by th' avenging flood ! 
Oh ! welcome came the cheerful morn, to s1ioa\- 
The drifted Avreck of Zoan's pride below ; 
1'lie mangled limbs of men — the broken car — 
A few sad relics of a nation's war : 
Alas, how few! — Then, soft as Elim's well. 
The precious tears of new-born freedom fell. 
And he, whose harden'd heart alike had borne 
The house of bondage and th' oppressor's scorn, 

257 « 



LINES ADDEESSEI) TO MRS. IIEBER. 

The stubborn slave, by hope's new beams subdued, 

In faltering accents sobb'd his gratitude — 

Till, kindling into warmer zeal, around 

The virgin timbrel waked its silver sound : 

And in fierce joy, no more by doubt supprest, 

The struggling spirit throbb'd in Miriam's breast. 

She, with bare arms, and fixing on the sky 

The dark transparence of her lucid eye, 

Pour'd on the winds of heaven her wild sweet harmony. 

"Where now," she sang, "the tall Egyptian spear? 
On's sun-like shield, and Zoan's chariot, where? 
Above their ranks the whelming waters spread. 
Shout, Israel, for the Lord hath triumphed !"— 
And every pause between as Miriam sang. 
From tribe to tribe the martial thunder rang, 
And loud and far their stormy chorus spread, — 
"Shout, Israel, for the Lord hath triumphed!" 



LINES ADDRESSED TO MRS. HEBER. 



If thou wert by my side, my love. 
How fast would evening fail. 

In green Bengola's palmy grove, 
Listening the nightingale! 

If thou, my love, wert by my side, 

My babies at my knee, 
How gayly would our pinnace glide 

O'er Gunga's mimic sea! 
258 



HEBER. 

I miss thee at the dawning gray, 

When, on our deck reclined, 
In careless ease my limbs I lay 

And woo the cooler wind. 

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream 

My twilight steps I guide, 
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam 

I miss thee from my side. 

I spread my books, my pencil trv 

The lingering noon to cheer. 
But miss thy kind approving eye, 

Thy meek attentive ear. 

But when of morn and eve the star 

Beholds me on my knee, 
I feel, though thou art distant far, 

Thy prayers ascend for me. 

Then on ! then on ! where duty leads, 

My course be onward still. 
O'er broad Hindostan's sultry mead, 

O'er bleak Almorah's hill. 

That course nor Delhi's kingly gates, 

Nor wild Malwah detain ; 
For sweet the bliss us both awaits 

By yonder western main. 

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, 

Across the dark blue sea. 
But ne'er were hearts so light and gay 

As then shall meet in thee ! 
259 



LINES. 



I.INES 



WKITTEN TO A MARCH COMPOSED IN IMITATION OP A MILITARY BAND. 

I SEE them on their wimling way, 
Above Ihcii- milks the luooii-bciuiis play, 
And nearer yet, and yet more near, 
The martial chorus strikes the ear. 

They're lost and gone, — the moon is past, 
The wood's dark shade is o'er them cast, 
And I'ainter, iaiiiter, fainter still. 
The dim march warbles up the hill. 

Again, again, — the pealing drum. 

The clashing horn — they come ! they come ! 

And lofty deeds and daring high. 

Blend with their notes of victory. 

Forth, forth, and meet them on their way, 
The trampling hoof brooks no delay ; 
The thrilling fife, the pealing drum, 
How late — but oh, how loved they come ! 




THE 



SOUTIIEY. 

, VISIT OF MADOC.-A SCENE AMONG THE WELSH IHLLS. 



Now liulh Prince Madoo, left the holy Isle, ^ 
And homeward to Aberfraw, throu-h the wilds 
or Arvon, bent his course. A little way 

2G1 



THE VISIT OF MADOC. 

lie turned a.^ide, by natural impulses 

Moved, to behold Cadwallon's lonely hut. 

That lonely dwelling stood among the hills 

By a grey mountain-stream ; just elevate 

Above the winter torrents did it stand, 

Upon a craggy bank ; an orchard slope 

Arose behind, and joyous was the scene 

In early summer, when those antic trees 

Shone with their blushing blossoms, and the flax 

Twinkled beneath the breeze its liveliest green. 

But save the flax-field and that orchard slope, 

All else was desolate, and now it wore 

One sober hue ; the narrow vale, Avhich wound 

Among the hills, was grey with rocks, that peer'd 

Above its shallow soil ; the mountain side 

Was loose with stones bestrewn, which oftentimes 

Clatter' d ad own the steep, beneath the foot 

Of straggling goat dislodged ; or lower'd with crags, 

One day, when winter's work hath loosen'd them. 

To thunder down. All things assorted well 

With that grey mountain hue; the low stone lines, 

Which scarcely seem'd to be the work of man, 

The dwelling rudely rear'd with stones unhewn. 

The stubble flax, the crooked apple-trees. 

Grey with their fleecy moss and mistletoe. 

The Avhite-bark'd birch, now leafless, and the ash 

Whose knotted roots Avere like the drifted rock 

Through which they forced their way. Adown the vale. 

Broken by stones, and o'er a stony bed, 

Koll'd the loud mountain-stream — 

When Madoc came, 
A little child was sporting by the brook. 
Floating the fallen leaves, that he might see them 
Whirl in the eddy now, and now be driven 
Down the descent, now on the smoother stream 

2G2 



SOUTHEY. 

Sail onward far away. But A\-hen he heard 

The horse's tramp, he raised his head and watch'd 

The Prince, who now dismounted and drew nigh. 

The little boy still fix'd his eyes on him. 

His bright blue eyes ; the wind just moved the curls 

That cluster'd round his brow ; and so he stood, 

His rosy cheeks still lifted up to gaze 

In innocent wonder. Madoc took his hand, 

And now had ask'd his name, and if he dwelt 

There in the hut ; when from that cottage-door 

A woman came, who, seeing Madoc, stopt 

With such a fear — for she had cause to fear — 

As when a bird, returning to her nest. 

Turns to a tree beside, if she behold 

Some prying boy too near the dear retreat. 

Howbeit, advancing, soon she now approach'd 

The approaching Prince, and timidly inquired 

If on his Avayfare he had lost the track, 

That thither he had stray'd. "Not so," replied 

The gentle Prince ; " but having known this place, 

And its old inhabitants, I came once more 

To see the lonely hut among the hills." 



THE WORLD OF WOE. 

Whoe'er hath loved with venturous step to tread 
The chambers dread 
Of some deep cave, and seen his taper's beam 
Lost in the arch of darkness overhead, 

And mark'd its gleam 
Playing afar upon the sunless stream, 

Where from their secret bed, 
And course unknown, and inaccessible. 
The silent waters well ; 
2G3 



THE WORLD OF WOE. 

Whoe'er hath trod such caves of endless niglil, 
He knows, when measuring back the gloomy way, 
With what delight refresh'd his eye 
Perceives the shadow of the light of day, 
Through the far portal slanting, where it falls 
Dimly reflected on the Avatery walls : 
How heavenly seems the sky ; 
And how, with quicken'd feet, he hastens up, 

Eager again to greet 
The living world and blessed sunshine there. 
And drink, as from a cup 
Of joy, Avith thirsty lips, the open air. 

Far other light than that of day there shone 

Upon the travellers, entering Padalon. 
Tlioy too in darkness enter'd on their way ; 
But far before the car, 
A glow, as of a fiery furnace light, 
Fiird all before them. 'Twas a light Avhicli made 
Darkness itself appear 
A thing of comfort, and the sight, dismay'd, 
Shrunk inward from the molten atmosphere. 
Their way was through the adamantine rock 
AYliich girt the World of Woe ; on either side 
Its massive walls arose, and overhead 
Arch'd the long passage ; onward as they ride, 
With stronger glare the light around them spread ; 

And lo ! the regions dread, 
The World of Woe before them, opening wide. 

There rolls the fiery flood, 
Girding the realms of Padalon around. 
A sea of flame it seem'd to be, 
Sea without bound ; 
For neither mortal nor innnortal sight 
Could pierce across through that intenscst light. 
2G4 



M.' 



«S5_iJ^ 



iA li ' 



__:ri^- _^_-^'^s* 




THALABA IN THE TENT OF MOATH. 

It was the wisdom and the will of Heaven, 
That in a lonely tent had cast 
The lot of Thalaba ; 
There might his soid develop best 
Its strengthening energies ; 
There might he from the world 
2G5 



TIIALABxV IN TEIE TENT OF ilOATII. 

Keep his heart pure and uncontammate, 
Till at the written hour he should be found 
Fit servant of the Lord, without a spot. 

Years of his youth, how rapidly ye fled 

In that beloved solitude ! 

Is the morn fair, and doth the freshening breeze 

Flow Avith cool current o'er his cheek? 

Lo! underneath the broad-leaved sycamore. 

With lids half-closed, he lies, 

Dreaming of days to come. 

His dog beside him, in mute blandishment, 

Now licks his listless hand ; 

Now lifts an anxious and expectant eye. 

Courting the wonted caress. 

Or comes the Father of the Eains 
From his caves in the uttermost AVest, 
Comes he in darkness and storms'? 
When the blast is loud; 
When the waters fill 
The traveller's tread in the sands ; 
When the pouring shower 
Streams adown the roof; 

When the door-curtain hangs in heavier folds ; 
IVTien the out-strain'd tent flags loosely: 
Within there is the embers' cheerful gloAV, 
The sound of the familiar voice, 
The song that lightens toll, — 
Domestic Peace and Comfort are within. 
Under the common shelter, on dry sand. 
The quiet camels ruminate their food ; 
The lengthening cord from Moath falls, 
As patiently the old man 

Entwines the strong palm-fibres ; by the hearth 
The damsel shakes the coflfee-grains, 
266 



SOUTHEY. 

That with warm fragrance fill the tent ; 
And while, with dexterous fingers, Thalaba 
Shapes the green basket, haply at his feet 
Her favourite kidling gnaws the twig, 
Forgiven plunderer, for Oneiza's sake. 

Or when the winter torrent rolls 

Down the deep-channell'd rain-course, foamingly, 

Dark with its mountain spoils. 

With bare feet pressing the wet sand, 

There wanders Thalaba, 

The rushing flow, the flowing roar, 

Filling his yielded fliculties, 

A vague, a dizzy, a tumultuous joy. 

Or lingers it a vernal brook 

Gleaming o'er yellow sands'? 

Beneath the lofty bank reclined, 

With idle eye he views its little waves. 

Quietly listening to the quiet flow ; 

While in the breathings of the stirring gale, 

The tall canes bend above. 

Floating like streamers in the wind 

Their lank uplifted leaves. 

Nor rich, nor poor, Avas Moath ; God hath given 
Enough, and blest him Avith a mind content. 
No hoarded gold disquieted his dreams ; 
But ever round his station he beheld 
Camels that knew his voice. 
And home-birds, grouping at Oneiza's call, 
And goats that, morn and eve. 
Came with full udders to the damsel's hand. 
Dear child! the tent beneath whose shade they dwelt. 
It was her work ; and she had twined 
His girdle's many hues ; 
And he- had seen his robe 
2G7 



THALABA IN THE TEXT OF MOATU. 

Grow in Oneiza's loom. 
How often, with a inemory-mingled joy 
AVliich made her mother live before his sight, 
He watch'd her nimble fingers thread the woof I 
Or at the hand-mill, when she knelt and toil'd, 
Toss'd the thin cake on spreading palm, 
Or fix'd it on the glowing oven's side 
With bare wet arm, and safe dexterity. 

'Tis the cool evening hour : 

The tamarind from the dew 

Sheathes its young fruit, yet green. 

Before their tent the mat is spread ; 

The old man's solemn voice 

Intones the holy book. 

What if beneath no lamp-illumined dome, 

Its marble walls bedeck'd Avith flourish'd truth, 

Azure and gold adornment? Sinks the word 

"With deeper influence from the Imam's voice 

Where in the day of congregation crowds 

Perform the duty- task? 

Their Father is their Priest, 

Tiie Stars of Heaven their point of prayer. 

And the blue Firmament 

The glorious Temple, where they feel 

The present Deity. 

Yet through the purple glow of eve 
Shines dimly the white moon. 
The slackcn'd bow, the quiver, the long lance. 
Rest on the pillar of the tent. 
Knitting light palm-leaves for her brother's brow, 
Tlic dark-eyed damsel sits ; 
The old man tranquilly 
Up his eurl'd pipe inhales 
Tiie tranquillising herb. 
So listen they the reed of Thalaba, 
268 



' SOUTHEY. 

While Ills skill'd fingers modulate 

The low, sweet, soothing, melancJioly tones. 

Or If he strung the pearls of poesy, 

Singing with agitated face 

And eloquent arms, and sobs that reach the heart. 

A tale of love and Avoe ; 

Then, if the brightening moon that lit liis face, 

In darkness favour'd hers, 

Oh ! even with such a look, as fables say, 

The Mother Ostrich fixes on her egg, 

Till that intense affection 

Kindle its light of life, 

Even in such deep and bi'eathless tenderness 

Oneiza's soul is centred on the youth, 

So motionless, with such an ardent gaze, 

Save when from her full eyes 

She wipes away the swelling tears 

That dim his image there. 

She call'd him Brother ; was it sister-love 
For which the silver rings, 
Round her smooth ankles and her tawny arms. 
Shone daily brighten'd ? for a brother s eye 
Were her long fingers tinged, 
As when she trimm'd the lamp, 
And through the veins and delicate skin 
The light shone rosy"? that the darken'd lids 
Gave yet a softer lustre to her eye? 
That with such pride she trick'd 
Her glossy tresses, and on holy-day 
Wreath'd the red flower-crown round 
Their waves of glossy jet ? 
How happily the days 
Of Thalaba went by ! 
Years of his youth, how rapidly ye fled ! 
269 



SUNLIGHT ON THE OCEAN. 



SUNLIGHT ON THE OCEAN. 

To Bardsey was the Lord of Ocean bound ; 

Bardsey, the holy Islet, in whose soil 

Did many a Chief and many a Saint repose, 

His great progenitors. He mounts the skiff; 

The canvas swells before the breeze, the sea 

Sings round her sparkling keel, and soon the Lord 

Of Ocean treads the venerable shore. 

There was not, on that day, a speck to stain 

The azure heaven ; the blessed Sun alone 

In unapproachable divinity 

Career'd, rejoicing in his fields of light. 

How beautiful beneath the bright blue sky 

The billows heave ! one glowing green expanse, 

Save where along the bending line of shore 

Such hue is thrown, as when the peacock's neck 

Assumes its proudest tint of amethyst, 

Embathed in emerald glory. All the flocks 

Of Ocean are abroad ; like floating foam 

The sea-gulls rise and fall upon the waves ; 

With long protruded neck the cormorants 

Wing their far flight aloft, and round and round 

The plovers Avhecl, and give their note of joy. 

It was a day that sent into the heart 

A summer feeling ; even the insect swarms 

From their dark nooks and coverts issued forth, 

To sport through one day of existence more ; 

The solitary primrose on the bank 

Seem'd now as though it had no cause to mourn 

Its bleak autumnal birth ; the rocks and shores, 

The forest and the everlasting hills. 

Smiled in that joyful sunshine, . . . they partook 

The universal blessing. 

270 



CAROLINE BOWLES (MRS. SOUTHEY). 



SUNDAY EVENING. 



I SAT last Sunday evening, 
From sunset even till night, 

At the open casement watching 
The day's departing light. 

Such hours to me are holy, 
Holier than tongue can tell. 

They fall on my heart like dew 
On the parched heather-bell. 

The Sun had shone bright all day — 
His setting was brighter still, 

But there sprang up a lovely air 
As he dropt down the Avestern hill. 

The fields and lanes were swarming 
With holy-day folks in their best. 

Released from their six days' cares 
By the seventh day's peace and rest. 

I heard the light-hearted laugh, 
The trampling of many feet — 

I saw them go merrily by, 

And to me the sight was sweet. 
271 



SUNDAY EVENING. 

There's a sacred soothing sweetness, 

A pervading spirit of bliss, 
Peculiar from all other times, 

In a Sabbath eve like this. 

Methinks, though I knew not the day, 
Nor beheld those glad faces, yet all 

Would tell me that Nature was keeping 
Some solemn festival. 

The steer and the steed in their pastures 
Lie down with a look of peace, 

As if they knew 'twas commanded 

That this day their labours should cease. 

The lai-k's vesper song is more thrilling 
As he mounts to bid Heaven good-night ; 

The brook sings a quieter tune — 
The sun sets in lovelier light — 

The grass, the green leaves, and the flowers 
Are tinged with more exquisite hues. 

More odorous incense from out them 
Steams up Avith the evening dews. 

So I sat last Sunday evening 

Musing on all these things, 
With that quiet gladness of spirit 

No thought of this world brings — 

I watched the departing glory, 
Till its last red streak grew pale, 

And Earth and Heaven were Avovcn 
In Twilight's dusky veil. 

272 



MRS. SOUTIIEY. 

Then tlic lark dropt down to his mate 

By her nest on the dewy ground ; 
And the sth* of human life 

Died away to a distant sound — 

All sounds died away — the light laugh — 
The far footstep — the merry call — 

To such stillness, the pulse of one's heart 
Might have echoed a rose-leaf's fall — 

And, by little and little, the darkness 

Waved wider its sable wings, 
Till the nearest objects and largest 

Became shapeless confused things — 

And, at last, all was dark — then I felt 
A cold sadness steal over my heart, 

And I said to myself, "Such is life! 
So its hopes and its pleasures depart ! 

" And when night comes — the dark night of age, 

What remainetli beneath the sun 
Of all that was lovely and loved? 

Of all we have learnt and done? 

" When the eye waxeth dim, and the ear 
To sweet music grows dull and cold, 

And the fancy burns low, and the heart — 
Oh, Heavens! can the heart grow old? 

"Then, what remainetli of life 

But the lees with bitterness fraught? 

What then?" — But I check'd as it rose. 
And rebuked that weak, wicked thouglit. 

273 s 



SUNDAY EVENING. 

Ami I lifted mine eyes up, and, lo ! 

An answer was wi-itten on high 
By the finger of God himself, 

In the depths of the dark blue sky. 

Tliere appeared a sign in the east — 
A bright, beautiful, fixed star! — 

And I look'd on its steady light 
Till the evil thoughts fled afar — 

And the lesser lights of Heaven 
Shone out with their pale soft rays, 

Like the calm uneartliy comforts 
Of a good man's latter days — 

And there came up a sweet perfume 
From the unseen flowers below, 

Like the savour of virtuous deeds, 
Of deeds done long ago ; 

Like the mem'ry of well-spent time — 
Of things that were holy and dear — 

Of friends, "depax'tcd this life 
In the Lord's faith and fear." 

So the burthen of darkness was taken 
From my soul, and my heart felt light ; 

And I laid me down to slumber 
With peaceful thoughts that night. 



274 




LEYDEN. 



TO THE EVENING STAR. 



How sweet thy modest light to view, 
Fair Star, to love and lovers dear! 



TO THE EVENING STAK. 

While trembling on the falling dew 
Like beauty shining through a tear. 

Or, hanging o'er that mirror-stream, 
To mark that image trembling there, 

Thou seem'st to smile with softer gleam. 
To see thy lovely face so fair. 

'J'hough, blazing on the arch of night, 
The moon thy timid beams outshine 

As far as thine each starry light ; — 
Her rays can never vie with thine. 

Thine are the soft enchanting hours 
When twilight lingers on the plain. 

And whispers to the closing flowers. 
That soon the sun will rise again. 

Thine is the breeze that, murmuring bland 
As music, wafts the lover's sigh, 

And bids the yielding heart expand 
In love's delicious ecstasy. 

Fair Star ! though I be doom'd to prove 
That rapture's tears are mix'd with pain, 

Ah ! still I feel 'tis sweet to love ! 
But sweeter to be lov'd again ! 



276 



LEYDEN. 



TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN. 



Slave of the dark and dirty mine ! 

What vanity has brought thee here? 
How can I love to see thee shine 

So bright, whom I have bought so dear?^ — 

The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear 
For twilight converse, arm in arm ; 

The jackal's shriek bursts on mine car 
When mirth and music wont to charm. 

I>y Cherical's dark wandering streams, 
Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild, 

Sweet visions haunt my Avaking dreams 
Of Teviot lov'd, chill, still, and mild, 
Of castled rocks stupendous pil'd 

I'>y Esk or Eden's classic wave, 

Wliere loves of youth and friendship smil'd, 

Iln curs' d by thee, vile yellow slave ! 

Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade ! 

The perish'd bliss of youth's first prime. 
That once so bright on fancy play'd, 

Revives no more in after time. 

Far from my sacred natal clime, 
I haste to an untimely grave ; 

The daring thoughts that soar'd sublime 
Are sunk in ocean's southern wave. 

Slave of the mine! thy yellow light 

Gleams baleful on the tomb-fire drear — 

A gentle vision comes by night 

My lonely Avidow'd heart to rheor : 

277 



TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN. 

Her eyes are dim with many a teai-, 
That once were guiding stars to mine : 

Her fond heart throbs with many a fear!- 
I cannot bear to see thee shine. 

For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, 
I left a heart that lov'd me true ! 

I cross'd the tedious ocean-wave. 

To roam in climes unkind and new : 
The cold wind of the stranger blew 

Chill on my wither'd heart: — the gi-ave 
Dark and untimely met my view — 

And all for thee, vile yellow slave ! 

Ha! com'st thou now so late to mock 

A wandei-er's banish'd heart forlorn. 
Now that his frame the lightning shock 

Of sun-rays tipt with death has borne? 

From love, from friendship, country, torn. 
To memory's fond regrets the prey, 

Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn ! 
Go mix thee Avith thy kindred clay ! 



CLARE. 



CLARE. 



MARY LEE. 



I HAVE traced the valleys fair 
In May morning's dewy air. 

My bonny Mary Lee ! 
Wilt thou deign the wreath to wear, 

Gather'd all for thee? 
They are not flowers of Pride, 
For they graced the dingle-side ; 
Yet they grew in Heaven's smile, 

My gentle Mary Lee! 
Can they fear thy frowns the while, 

Tliough offered by me? 

Here's the lily of the vale. 
That perfumed the morning gale, 

My fairy Mary Lee! 
All so spotless and so pale, 

Like thine own purity. 
And might I make it known, 
'Tis an emblem of my OA\ai 
Love — if I dare so name 

My esteem for thee. 
Surely flowers can bear no blame. 

My bonny Mary Lee! 
' 279 



MARY LEE. 

Here's the violet's modest blue, 

That 'neath hawthorns hides from \\ew. 

My gentle Mary Lee, 
"Would show "whose heart is true. 

Wliile it thinks of thee. 
While they choose each lowly spot. 
The sun disdains them not ; 
I'm as lowly too, indeed. 

My charming Mary Lee ; 
So I've brought the flowers to plead. 

And win a smile from thee. 

Here's a wild rose just in bud ; 
Spring's beauty in its hood, 

My bonny Mary Lee ! 
'Tis the first in all the Avood 

I could find for thee. 
Though a blush is scarcely seen, 
Yet it hides its worth within. 
Like my love ; for I've no power. 

My angel, Mary Lee, 
To speak unless the flower 

Can make excuse for me. 

Though they deck no princely halls. 
In bouquets for glittering balls, 

]My gentle INIary Lee ! 
Eicher hues than painted walls 

Will make them dear to thee ; 
For the blue and laughing sky 
Spreads a grander canojiy 
Than all wealth's golden skill, 

My charming JNIary Lee ! 
Love would make them dearer still, 

That offers them to thee. 
280 • 



CLARE. 

My wreathed Howers are few, 
Yet no fairer drink the dew, 

My bonny Mary Lee! 
They may seem as trifles too — 

Not, I hope, to thee. 
Some may boast a richer prize- 
Under pride and wealth's disguise ; 
None a fonder offering bore 

Than this of mine to thee ; 
And can true love wish for more? 

Surely not, Mary Lee ! 



281 



BRAINARD. 



SALMON RIVER. 



Hie viridis tenera prsetexit ariindine ripas 
Mincius. — Vikgil. 



'Tis a sweet stream — and so, 'tis true, are all 
That undisturbed, save by the harmless brawl 
Of mimic rapid or slight waterfall, 

Pursue their way 
By mossy bank, and darkly waving Avood, 
By rock, that since the Deluge fixed has stood. 
Showing to sun and moon their crisping flood 

By night and day. 

But yet there's something in its humble rank, 
Something in its pure wave and sloping bank, 
Where the deer sported, and the young fawn drank 

With unscared look : 
There's much in its wild history, that teems 
With all that's superstitious — and that seems 
To match our fancy and eke out our dreams. 

In that small brook. 

Havoc has been upon its peaceful plain, 
And blood has dropped there, like the drops of rain 
The corn grows o'er the still graves of the slain — 
And many a quiver, 

282 



BRAINARD. 

Filled from the reeds that grcAv on yonder hill, 
Has spent itself in carnage. Now 'tis still, 
And whistling ploughboys oft their runlets fill 
From Salmon Eiver. 

Here, say old men, the Indian Magi made 
Their spells by moonlight; or beneath the shade 
That shrouds sequestered rock, or darkening glade, 

Or tangled dell. 
Here Philip came, and Miantonimo, 
And asked about their fortunes long ago. 
As Saul to Endor, that her witch might show 

Old Samuel. 

And here the black fox roved, and howled, and shook 
His thick tail to the hunters, by the brook 
Where they pursued their game, and him mistook 

For earthly fox; 
Thinking to shoot him like a shaggy bear, 
And his soft peltry, stript and dressed, to wear. 
Or lay a trap, and from his quiet lair 

Transfer him to a box. 

Such are the tales they tell. 'Tis hard to rhyme 

About a little and unnoticed stream, 

That few have heard of — but it is a theme 

I chance to love ; 
And one day I may tune my rye-straw reed, 
And whistle to the note of many a deed 
Done on this river — which, if there be need, 

I'll try to prove. 



283 



THE BLACK FOX OF SALMON RIVER. 



THE BLACK FOX OF SALMON RIVER. 

How cold, how beautiful, how bright. 
The cloudless heaven above us shines ; 

But 'tis a howling winter s night, 
'Twould freeze the very forest pines ! 

"The winds are up, while mortals sleep; 

The stars look forth when eyes are shut ; 
The bolted snow lies drifted deep 

Around our poor and lonely hut. 

" With silent step and listening ear, 
With bow and arrow, dog and gun, 

We'll mark his track, for his prowl we hear. 
Now is our time ! — come on, come on !" 

O'er many a fence, through many a wood. 
Following the dog's bewildered scent, 

In anxious haste and earnest mood. 
The Indian and the white man Avent. 

The gun is cocked, the bow is bent, 
The dog stands with uplifted paw. 

And ball and arrow swift are sent. 
Aimed at the prowler's very jaw. 

The ball, to kill that fox, is run 

Not in a mould by mortals made ! 
The arrow which that fox should shun 
^ Was never shaped from earthly reed ! 

The Indian Druids of the wood 

Know where the fatal arrows grow — 

They spring not by the summer flood, 

They pierce not through the winter snow ! 
284 



BRAINARD. 

Why cowers the dog, whose snuffing nose 
Was never once deceived till now? 

And why, amid the chilling snows, 
Does either hunter Avipe his brow? 

For once they see his fearful den, 
'Tis a dark cloud that slowly moves 

By night around the homes of men. 
By day — along the stream it loves. 

Again the dog is on his track, 

The hunters chase o'er dale and hill, 

They may not, though they would, look baclv, 
They must go forward — forward still. 

Onward they go, and never turn, 

Spending a night that meets no day ; 

For them shall never morning sun 
Light them upon their endless way. 

The hut is desolate, and there 
The ftimished dog alone returns ; 

On the cold steps he makes his lair. 
By the shut door he lays his bones. 

Now the tired sportsman leans his gun 

Against the ruins of the site. 
And ponders on the hunting done 

By the lost wanderers of the night. 

And there the little country girls 

Will stop to whisper, and listen, and look, 

And tell, while dressing their sunny curls. 
Of the Black Fox of Salmon Brook. 



285 



EDWARD COATE PINKNEY. 



A HEALTH. 



I FILL this cup to one made up of loveliness alone, 

A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon ; 

To whom the better elements and kindly stars have given 

A form so fair, that, like the air, 'tis less of earth than heaven. 

Her every tone is music's own, like those of morning- birds. 
And something more than melody dwells ever in her words ; 
The coinage of her heart arc they, and from her lips each flows 
As one may see the burthened bee forth issue from the rosv- 

Affections arc as thoughts to her, the measui-es of her hours ; 
Her feelings have the fragi'ancy, the freshness of young flowers; 
And lovely passions, changing oft, so fill her, she appears 
The image of themselves by turns, — the idol of past years. 

Of her bright face one glance will trace a picture on the brain. 
And of her voice in echoing hearts a sound must long remain ; 
But memory such as mine of her so very much endears. 
When death is nigh my latest sigh will not be life's but hers. 

I filled this cup to one made up of loveliness alone, 
A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon — 
Her health! and would on earth there stood some more of such 

a frame, 
Tliat life might be all poetry, and weariness a name. 

286 ^ 



EDWAKD COATE PINKNEY. 



A PICTURE-SONG. 



Mow may this little tablet feign tlie features of a face, 
Which o'er-informs with loveliness its proper share of space ; 
Or human hands on ivory enable us to see 
The charms that all must *wonder at, thou work of gods, in thee ! 

But yet, methinks, that sunny smile familiar stories tells, 
And I should know those placid eyes, two shaded crystal wells ; 
Nor can my soul, the limner's art attesting with a sigh, 
Forget the blood that decked thy cheek, as rosy clouds the sky. 

They could not semble what thou art, more excellent than fair. 
As soft as sleep or pity is, and pure as mountain air ; 
But here ai'e common, earthly hues, to such an aspect wrought. 
That none, save thine, can seem so like the beautiful of thought. 

The song I sing, thy likeness like, is painfid mimicry 
Of something better, which is now a memory to me, 
Who have upon life's frozen sea arrived the icy spot, 
Where men's magnetic feelings show their guiding task forgot. 

The sportive hopes, that used to chase their shifting shadows on. 
Like children playing in the sun, are gone — for ever gone ; 
And on a careless, sullen peace, my double-fronted mind, 
Like Janus when his gates were shut, looks forward and behind. 

Apollo placed his harp, of old, awhile upon a stone. 
Which has resounded since, Avhen struck, a breaking harp- 
string's tone ; 
And thus my heart, though wholly now from early softness free, 
If touched, will yield the music yet it first received of thee. 

287 




CLEMENT C. MOORE. 



A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. 



'TwAs the night before Christmas, when all through the house 
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse ; 

288 



CLEMENT C. MOOKE. 

The stockings were hung by the chimney ^\ith care, 
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there ; 
The chUdren were nestled all snug in their beds, 
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads ; 
And Mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap, 
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap ; 
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, 
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. 
Away to the window I flew like a flash, 
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. 
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow. 
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below, 
When, Avhat to my wondering eyes should appear, 
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny rein-deer. 
With a little old driver, so lively and quick, 
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. 
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, 
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name 
"Now, Dasher! now. Dancer! now, Prancer ! and Vixen! 
On, Comet ! on, Cupid ! on, Donder and Blitzen ! 
To the top of the porch ! to the top of the wall ! 
Now dash away ! dash away ! dash away all !" 
As diy leaves that before the wild hurricane fly. 
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky ; 
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew. 
With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too. 
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof. 
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof — 
As I drew in my head, and was turnmg around, 
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound, 
lie was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot. 
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot ; 
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back. 
And he looked like a pedlar just opening his pack. 
His eyes — how they twinkled ! his dimples how merry ! 
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! 

289 T 



A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. 

I lis droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, 

And the beard of his chin Avas as white as the snow; 

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, 

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath ; 

lie had a broad face and a little round belly, 

That shook, when he laughed, like a bowlfid of jelly. 

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf. 

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself; 

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head, 

Soon gave me to know T had nothing to dread ; 

He spoke not a word, but Avent straight to his work, 

And filled all the stockings ; then turned with a jerk, 

And laying his finger aside of his nose, 

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose ; 

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, 

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle. 

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, 

" Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night /" 



290 




BARTON. 



TO THE EVENING PRIMROSE. 



Fair flower, that shunn'st the glare of clay, 
Yet lov'st to open, meekly bold, 

To evening's hues of silver grey 
Thy cup of paly gold; — 



Be thine the offering, owing long 
To thee, and to this pensive hour, 

Of one brief tributary song, 
Though transient as thy flower. 
291 



TO THE EVENING PRIMROSE. 

I love to watch at silent eve 

Thy scatter'd blossoms' lonely light, 

And have my inmost heart receive 
The influence of that sight. 

I love at such an hour to mark 

Their beauty greet the night-breeze chill. 

And shine, 'mid shadows gathering dark. 
The garden's glory still. 

For such 'tis sweet to think the while, 
When cares and griefs the breast in\ade, 

Is friendship's animating smUe 
In sorrow's dark'ning shade. 

Thus it bursts forth, like thy pale cup — 
Glist'ning amid its dewy tears. 

And bears the sinking spirit up 
Amid its chilling fears — 

But still more animating far, 

If meek Religion's eye may trace 

Even in thy glimm'ring, earth-born star. 
The holier hope of Grace. 

The hope, that as thy beauteous bloom 
Expands to glad the close of day. 

So through the shadows of the tomb 
May break forth JMercy's ray. 



292 




SOTHEBY. 



RHINEFIELD,— A LODGE IN THE NEW FOREST. 



RiimEPiELD ! as through thy solitude I rove, 
Now lost amid the deep wood's gloomy night, 
Doubtful I trace a ray of glimmering light ; 

Now where some antique oak, itself a grove, 
Spreads its soft umbrage o'er the sunny glade. 

Stretched on its mossy roots at early dawn 

While o'er the furze with light bound leaps the fawn. 
I count the herd that crops the dewy blade : 

Frequent at eve list to the hum profound 
That all around upon the chill breeze floats, 
Broke by the lonely keeper's wild, strange notes. 

At distance followed by the browsing deer; 

Or the bewilder' d stranger's plaintive sound 

That dies in lessening murmurs on the ear. 

293 



ON CROSSING THE ANGLESEY STRAIT. 
SKIRID, 

A HILL NEAR ABERGAVENNY. 

Skirid! remembrance tliy loved scene renews; 

Fancy, yet lingering on thy shaggy brow, 

Beholds around the lengthened landscape glow, 
AYhich charmed, Avhen late the day-beam's parting hues 

Purpled the distant cliff. The crystal stream 
Of Usk bright winds the verdant meads among; 
The dark heights lower with Avild woods o'erhung; 

Pale on the grey tower falls the twilight gleam. 
And frequent I recal the sudden breeze, 

Wliich, as the sun shot up his last pale flame, 
Shook every light leaf shivering on the trees : 

Then, bathed in dew, meek evening silent came, 
Wliile the low wind, that faint and fainter fell, 
Soft murmured to the dying day — Farewell ! 



ON CROSSING THE ANGLESEY STRAIT TO BANGOR AT 
MIDNIGHT. 

'TwAS night, when from the Druid's gloomy cave. 
Where I had wander'd, tranced in thought, alone 
'Mid Cromlech's and the Carnedd's funeral stone, 

Pensive and slow I sought the Menai's wave : 
Lulled by the scene, a soothing stillness laid 

Each pang to rest. O'er Snowdon's cloudless brow 

The moon, that full orb'd rose, with peaceful gloAv 
Beamed on the rocks ; with many a star arrayed, 

Glitter'd the broad blue sky ; from shore to shore 
O'er the smooth current streamed a silver light, 
Save where along the flood the lonely height 
Of rocky Penmaenraaur deep darkness sjjread ; 

And all was silence, save the ceaseless roar 
Of Conway bursting on the ocean's bed. 
294 




BKYANT. 



SONG OF MARION'S MEN. 



Our band is few, but true and tried, 

Our leader frank and bold ; 
The British soldier trembles 

When Marion's name is told. 
Our fortress is the good greenwood, 

Our tent the cypress-tree ; 
We know the forest round us. 

As seamen know the sea. 
295 



SONG OF MARION'S MEN. 

We know its walls of thorny vines, 

Its glades of reedy grass, 
Its safe and silent islands 

"Within the dark morass. 

Wo to the English soldiery. 

That little dread us near! 
On them shall light at midnight 

A strange and sudden fear: 
When, waking to their tents on fire, 

They grasp their arms in vain, 
And they who stand to face us 

Are beat to earth again. 
And they who fly in terror deem 

A mighty host behind, 
And hear the tramp of thousands 

Upon the hollow wind. 

Then sweet the hour that brings release 

From danger and from toil : 
We talk the battle over, 

And share the battle's spoil. 
The woodland rings with laugh and shout. 

As if a hunt were up. 
And Avoodland flowers are gathered 

To crown the soldier's cup. 
With merry songs we mock the Avind 

That in the pine-top gi'ieves. 
And slumber long and sweetly 

On beds of oaken leaves. 

Well knows the fair and friendly moon 
The band that Marion leads — 

The glitter of their rifles. 

The scampering of their steeds. 

'Tis life to guide the fiery barlj 
Across the moonlight plain ; 
296 



BRYAISIT. 

'Tis life to feel the night-wind 
That lifts his tossing mane. 

A moment in the British camp — 
A moment — and away 

Back to the pathless forest, 
Before the peep of day. 

Grave men there are by broad San tee, 

GraA'e men with hoary hairs, 
Their hearts are all with Marion, 

For Marion are their prayers. 
And lovely ladies greet our band 

With kindliest Avelcoming, 
With smiles like those of summer, 

And tears like those of spring. 
For them we wear these trusty arms. 

And lay them down no more 
Till we have driven the Briton, 

For ever, from our shore. 



297 





,r 










GREEN RIVER. 

When breezes are soft and skies are fair, 
I steal an hour from study and care, 
And hie me away to the woodland scene, 
Where wanders the stream with Avaters of green, 
As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brink 
Had given their stain to the wa\e they drink ; 
And they, whose meadows it murmurs through, 
Have named the stream from its own fair hue. 



Yet pure its waters — its shallows are bright 
With colored pebbles and sparkles of light. 
And clear the depths Avhcre its eddies play, 
And dimples deepen and >\'hirl away, 
298 



BEYANT. 

And the plane-tree's speckled arms o'ershoot 

The swifter current that mines its root, 

Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hill, 

The quivering glimmer of sun and rill 

With a sudden flash on the eye is thro-\vn, 

Like the ray that streams from the diamond-stone 

Oh, loveliest there the spring days come. 

With blossoms, and bii'ds, and wild bees' hum; 

The flowers of summer are fairest there. 

And freshest the breath of the summer air ; 

And sweetest the golden autumn day 

In silence and sunshine glides away. 

Yet, fair as thou art, thou shunnest to glide, 
Beautiful stream! by the village side; 
But windest aAvay from haunts of men. 
To quiet valley and shaded glen; 
And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill. 
Around thee, are lonely, lovely, and still. 
Lonely, save when, by thy rippling tides, 
From thicket to thicket the angler glides; 
Or the simpler comes Avith basket and book, 
For herbs of power on thy banks to look ; 
Or haply, some idle dreamer, like me. 
To wander, and muse, and gaze on thee. 
Still — save the chirp of birds that feed 
On the river cherry and seedy reed. 
And thy own wild music gushing out 
With mellow murmur and fairy shout, 
From dawn to the blush of another day. 
Like traveller singing along his way. 

That fairy music I never hear. 
Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear, 
And mark them winding away from sight. 
Darkened with shade or flashing with light, 
299 



GREEN RIVER. 

While o'er them the vine to its thicket cling?, 
And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings. 
But I wish that fate had left me free 
To wander these quiet haunts with thee, 
Till the eating cares of earth should depart, 
And the peace of the scene pass into ray heart ; 
And I envy thy stream as it glides along, 
Through its beautiful banks in a trance of song. 

Though forced to drudge for the dregs of men, 

And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen, 

And mingle among the jostling crowd, 

Wliere the sons of strife are subtle and loud — 

I often come to this quiet place. 

To breathe the airs that ruffle thy face, 

And gaze upon thee in silent dream, 

For in thy lonely and lovely stream 

An image of that calm life appears 

That won my heart in my greener years. 



300 



BRYANT. 



THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, 

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere. 

Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead; 

They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. 

The robin and the wren are floAvn, and from the shrubs the jay, 

And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. 

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood 
In brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? 
Alas ! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers 
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. 
The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain 
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. 

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, 

And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow ; 

But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood. 

And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood. 

Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, 

And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen. 

And now, Avhen comes the calm mUd day, as still such days will come, 

To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home ; 

When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, 

And twdnkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, 

The south vsiiid searches for the flowers whose fragi'ance late he bore. 

And i^iglift- to find them in the wood and by the stream no moi';'. 

And then I think of one Avho in her youthful beauty died. 
The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side : 
In the cold moist earth Ave laid her, when the forests cast the leaf, 
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief: 
Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours, 
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. 

301 



THE LAND OF DREAMS. 



THE LAND OF DREAMS. 



A MIGHTY realm is the Land of Dreams, 
With steeps that hang in the twilight sky, 

And weltering oceans and trailing streams. 
That gleam where the dusky valleys lie. 

But over its shadowy border flow 

Sweet rays from the world of endless morn. 

And the nearer mountains catch the glow, 
And flowers in the nearer fields are born. 

The souls of the happy dead repair, 

From their bowers of light, to that bordering land. 
And walk in the fainter glory there, 

With the souls of the living hand in hand. 

One calm sweet smile, in that shadowy sphere. 
From eyes that open on earth no more — 

One warning word from a voice once dear — 
How they rise in the memory o'er and o'er! 

Far off" from those hUls that shine with day, 
And fields that bloom in the heavenly gales, 

The Land of Dreams goes stretching away 
To dimmer mountains and darker vales. 

There lie the chambers of guilty delight. 
There walk the spectres of guilty fear. 

And soft low voices, that float through the night. 
Are whispering sin in the helpless ear. 
.302 



BRYANT. 

Dear maid, in thy girlhood's opening flower, 
Scarce weaned from the love of childish play! 

The tears on whose cheeks are but the shower 
That freshens the early blooms of May ! 

'^riiine eyes are closed, and over thy brow 
Pass thoughtful shadows and joyous gleams, 

And I know, by thy moving lips, that now 
Thy spirit strays in the Land of Dreams. 

Light-hearted maiden, oh, heed thy feet ! 

O keep where that beam of Paradise falls. 
And only wander where thou may'st meet 

The blessed ones from its shining walls. 

So shalt thou come from the Land of Dreams, 
With love and peace to this world of strife ; 

And the light that over that border streams 
Shall lie on the path of thy daily life. 



303 










THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES. 



Av. this i - fi'CCfloin ! — tlicse pure .^Idcs 

Were never stained Avitli village smoke : 
The fragrant Avind, that through them flies, 

Is breathed from wastes by plough unbroke. 
Here, Avitli my rifle and my steed, 

And her Avho left the world for me, 
I plant me where the red deer feed 

In the green desert — and am free. 
304 



BRYANT. 

For here the fair . savannas know 

No barriers in the bloomy grass ; 
Wherever breeze of heaven may blow. 

Or beam of heaven may glance, I pas^. 
In pastures, measureless as air, 

The bison is my noble game ; 
The bounding elk, whose antlers tear 

The branches, falls before my aim. 

Mine are the river-fowl that scream 

From the long stripe of waving sedge; 
The bear that marks my weapon's gleam, 

Hides vainly in the forest's edge ; 
In vain the she-wolf stands at bay ; 

The brinded catamount, that lies 
Higli in the boughs to watch his prey, 

Even in the act of springing, dies. 

With what free growth the elm and plane 

Fling their huge arms across my way, 
Gray, old, and cumbered with a train 

Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray! 
Free stray the lucid streams, and find 

No taint in these fresh lawns and shades ; 
Free spring the flowers that scent the wind 

Where never scythe has SAvept the glades. 

Alone the Fire, when frost-winds sere 

The heavy herbage of the ground. 
Gathers his annual harvest here. 

With roaring like the battle's sound, 
And hurrying flames that sweep the plain, 

And smoke-streams gushing up the sky : 
I meet the flames with flames agam. 

And at my door they cower and die. 
305 



THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES. 

Here, from dim woods, tlie aged past 

Speaks solemnly; and I behold 
The boundless future in the vast 

And lonely river, seaward rolled. 
Who feeds its founts Avith rain and dew; 

Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass, 
And trains the bordering vines, whose blue 

Bright clusters tempt me as I pass? 

Broad are these streams — my steed obeys, 

Plunges, and bears me through the tide. 
Wide arfe these woods — I thread the maze 

Of giant stems, nor ask a guide. 
I hunt till day's last glimmer dies 

O'er woody vale and grassy height ; 
And kind the voice and glad the eyes 

That welcome my return at night. 



306 




THE GLADNESS OF NATURE. 



Is this a time to be cloudy and sad, 

When our mother Nature laughs around ; 

When even the deep blue heavens look glad, 

And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground? 

307 



WILLIAM TELL. 

There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren, 
And the gossip of swallows through all the sky ; 

The ground-squirrel gayly chirps by his den, 
And the wilding bee hums merrily by. 

The clouds are at play in the azure space, 

And their shadows at play on the bright green vale, 

And here they stretch to the frolic chase, 
And there they roll on the easy gale. 

There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower, 
There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree, 

There's a smile on the fruit and a smile on the flower, 
And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea. 

And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles 
On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray, 

On the leaping waters and gay young isles ; 
Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away. 



WILLIAM TELL. 

Chains may subdue the feeble spirit, but thee, 
Tell, of the iron heart ! they could not tame ! 
For thou wert of the mountains; they proclaim 

The everlasting creed of liberty. 

That creed is written on the untrampled sno^v. 
Thundered by torrents which no power can hold. 
Save that of God, when he sends forth his cold, 

And breathed by winds that through the free heaven blow. 

Thou, while thy prison walls were dark around, 
Didst meditate the lesson Nature taught. 
And to thy brief captivity was brought 

A vision of thy Switzerland unbound. 

The bitter cup they mingled, strengthened thcc 
Foi- tlie great work to sel thy country free. 
308 



BRYANT. 



AN INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY. 

All clay, from shrubs by our summer dwelling, 
The Easter-sparrow repeats his song, 

A merry warbler, he chides the blossoms. 
The idle blossoms, that sleep so long. 

The blue-bird chants, from the elm's long branches 
A hymn to Avelcome the budding year ; 

The south-wind wanders from field to forest, 
And softly whispers, The spring is here! 

Come, daughter mine, from the gloomy city, 
Before these lays from the elm have ceased ; 

The violet breathes by our door as SAveetly 
As in the air of her native East. 

Though many a flower in the wood is waking. 

The daffodil is our door-side queen; 
She pushes upward the sward already, 

To spot with sunshine the early green. 

No lays so joyous as these are -warbled 
From wiry prison in maiden's bower ; 

No pampered bloom of the green-house chamber 
Has half the charm of the lawn's first flower. 

Y'et these sweet lays of the early season 
And these fair sights of its sunny days. 

Are only sweet when we fondly listen. 
And only fair Avhen we fondly gaze. 
309 



AN INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY. 

There is no glory in star or blossom 
Till looked upon by a loving eye ; 

There is no fragrance in April breezes 

Till breathed with joy as they wander by. 

Come, Julia dear, for the sprouting willoAvs, 
The opening flowers, and the gleaming brooks, 

And hollows green in the sun are waiting 
Theii- dower of beauty from thy glad looks. 



310 




DRAKE. 



BRONX. 



I SAT me down upon a green bank-side, 
Skirting the smooth edge of a gentle river, 

Whose waters seemed unwillingly to glide, 

Like parting friends who linger while they sever; 

Enforced to go, yet seeming still unready, 

Backward they Avind their Avay in many a wistful eddy. 



BRONX. 

(iray o'er my head the yellow-vested willow 
Ruffled its hoary top in the fresh breezes, 

Glancing in light, like spray on a green billow, 
Or the fine frostwork which young winter freezes, 

When first his power in infant pastime trying, 

Congeals sad autumn's tears on the dead branches lying. 



From rocks around hung the loose ivy dangling, 

And in the clefts sumach of liveliest green. 
Bright ising-stars the little beach was spangling, 

The gold-cup sorrel from his gauzy screen 
Shone like a fairy crown, enchased and beaded. 
Left on some morn, when light flashed in their eyes unheeded. 



The humbird shook his sun-touched wings around, 

The bluefinch caroll'd in the still retreat ; 
The antic squirrel capered on the ground 

' Where lichens made a carpet for his feet : 
Through the transpai-ent Avaves, the ruddy minkle 
Shot up in glimmering sparks his red fin's tiny twinkle. 



There were dark cedars with loose mossy tresses. 
White powdered dog-trees, and stiff hollies flaunting 

(xaudy as rustics in their May-day dresses. 
Blue pelloret from purple leaves upslanting 

A modest gaze, like eyes of a young maiden 

Shining beneath dropt lids the evening of her wedding. 



The breeze fresh springing from the lips of morn. 
Kissing the leaves, and sighing so to lose 'em. 

The winding of the merry locust's horn. 

The glad spring gushing from the rock's bare bosom : 

Sweet sights, sweet sounds, all sights, all sounds excelling, 

Oh ! 'twas a ravishing spot formed for a poet's dwelling. 

312 



DRAKE. 

And did I leave thy loveliness, to stand 

Again in the dull world of earthly blindness '? 

Pained with the pressure of unfriendly hands, 
Sick of smooth looks, agued with icy kindness? 

Left I for this thy shades, where none intrude. 

To prison wandei-iug thought and mar sweet solitude? 



Yet I will look upon thy face again, 
My own romantic Bronx, and it will be 

A face more pleasant than the face of men. 
Thy waves are old companions, I shall see 

A well-remembered form in each old tree. 

And hear a voice long loved in thy wild minstrelsy. 



SONNET 



Is thy heart weary of unfeeling men, 

And chilled with the world's ice? Then come with me. 

And I will bring thee to a pleasant glen 

Lovely and lonely. There we'll sit, unviewed 

By scoffing eye ; and let our hearts beat free 

With their own mutual throb. For wild and rude 

The access is, and none will there intrude, 

To poison our free thoughts, and mar our solitude ! 

Such scenes move not their feelings — for they hold 
No fellowship with nature's loneliness ; 
The frozen wave reflects not back the gold 

And crimson flushes of the sun-set hour ; 

The rock lies cold in sunshine — not the power 
Of heaven's bright orb can clothe its barrenness. 

313 




HALLECK. 



RED JACKET. 

A CHIEF OF THE INDIAN TRIBES, THE TUSCAPtORAS. 

ON LOOKING AT HIS PORTRAIT BY WEIR. 

Cooper, whose name is -with his country's woven, 
First in her files, her Pioneer of mind — 

A Avanderer now in other climes, has proven 
His love for the young land he left behind; 
314 



IIALLECK. 

And throned her in the senate-hall of nations, 
Eobed like the deluge rainbow, heaven-wrought ; 

Magnificent as his own mind's creations. 

And beautiful as its green world of tliougiit : 

And faithful to the Act of Congress, quoted 
As law authority, it passed nem. con. : 

He writes that we are, as ourselves have voted, 
The most enlightened people ever known. 

That all our week is happy as a Sunday 
In Paris, full of song, and dance, and laugh ; 

And that, from Orleans to the Bay of Fundy, 
There's not a bailiff or an epitaph. 

And furthermore — in fifty years, or sooner. 
We shall export our poetry and wine ; 

And our brave fleet, eight frigates and a schooner, 
Will sweep the seas from Zembla to the Line. 

If he wei'e with me. King of Tuscarora ! 

Gazing, as I, upon thy portrait now. 
In all its medalled, fringed, and beaded glory, 

Its eye's dark beauty, and its thoughtful brow — 

Its brow, half martial and half diplomatic. 
Its eye, upsoaring like an eagle's wings ; 

Well might he boast that Ave, the Democratic, 
Outrival Europe, even in our Kings ! 

For thou wast monarch born. Tradition's pages 
Tell not the planting of thy parent tree, 

But that the forest tribes have bent for ages 
To thee, and to thy sires, the subject knee. 

Thy name is princely — if no poet's magic 

Could make Red Jacket grace an English rhyme, 

Though some one with a genius for the tragic 
ITath introduced it in a pantomime, 
315 



RED JACKET. 

Yet it is music in the language spoken 

Of thine own land ; and on her herald roll ; 

As bravely fought for, and as proud a token 
As Coeur de Lion's of a warrior's soul. 

Thy garb — though Austria's bosom-star would frighten 
That medal pale, as diamonds the dark mine. 

And George the Fourth wore, at his court at Brighton. 
A more becoming evening dress than thine ; 

Yet 'tis a brave one, scorning wind and weather. 
And fitted for thy couch, on field and flood, 

As Rob Roy's tartan for the Highland heatliei*, 
Or forest green for England's Robin Hood. 

Is strength a monarch's merit, like a whaler's? 

Thou art as tall, as sinewy, and as strong 
As earth's first kings — the Argo's gallant sailors, 

Heroes in history, and gods in song. 

Is beauty ? — Thine has Avith thy youth departed ; 

But the love-legends of thy manhood's years, 
And she who perished, young and broken-hearted. 

Are — but I rhyme for smiles and not for tears. 

Is eloquence? — Her spell is thine that reaches 
The heart, and makes the wisest head its sport; 

And there's one rare, strange virtue in thy speeches. 
The secret of their mastery — they are short. 

The monarch mind, the mystery of commanding. 
The birth-hour gift, the art Napoleon, 

Of Avinning, fettering, moulding, wielding, banding 
The hearts of millions till they move as one : 

Thou hast it. At thy bidding men ha.\e crowded 

The road to death as to a festival ; 
And minstrels, at their sepulchres, have shrouded 

With banner-folds of glory the dark pall. 
31G 



HALLECK. 

Who will believe '? Not I — for in deceiving 
Lies the dear charm of life's delightful dream ; 

I cannot spare the luxury of believing 

That all things beautiful are what they seem ; 

Who will believe that, with a smile whose blessing 
Would, like the Patriarch's, soothe a dying hour, 

AYith voice as low, as gentle, and caressing, 
As e'er won maiden's lip in moonlit bower ; 

With look, like patient Job's, eschewing evil ; 

With motions graceful as a bird's in air ; 
Thou art, in sober truth, the veriest devil 

That e'er clenched fingers in a captive's hair ! 

That in thy breast there springs a poison fountain, 
Deadlier than that where bathes the Upas-tree ; 

And in thy wrath, a nursuig cat-o'-mountain 
Is calm as her babe's sleep compared with thee ! 

And underneath that face, like summer ocean's, 
Its lip as moveless, and its cheek as clear. 

Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart's emotions. 
Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow — all save fear. 

Love — for thy land, as if she were thy daughter. 
Her pipe in peace, her tomahawk in wars ; 

Hatred — of missionai'ies and cold water ; 
Pride — in thy rifle-trophies and thy scars ; 

Hope — that thy wTongs may be, by the Great Spirit, 
Eemembered and revenged when thou art gone ; 

Sorrow — that none are left thee to inherit 

Thy name, thy fame, thy passions, and thy throne ! 



31' 







CONNECTICUT. 



(FROM AN rXPUBLISIIED POEM.) 



.still her gray rocks tOAver above the sea 

That crouches at their feet, a conquered Avave ; 

"Tis a rough land of earth, and stone, and tree, 
Where breathes no castled lord or cabined slave ; 

Where thoughts, and tongues, and hands are bold and free. 
And friends mil find a welcome, foes a grave ; 

And where none kneel, save when to heaven they pray. 

Nor even then, unless in their own way. 

318 



HALLECK. 

Theirs is a, pure republic, Avild, yet strong, 
A " fierce clemocracie," where all are true 

To what themselves have voted — right or wrong- 
And to their laws denominated blue ; 

(If red, they might to Draco's code belong ;) 
A vestal state, which power could not subdue, 

Nor promise win — like her own eagle's nest. 

Sacred — the San Marino of the West. 



A justice of the peace, for the time being. 

They bow to, but may turn him out next year ; 

They reverence their priest, but disagreeing 
In price or creed, dismiss him without fear ; 

They have a natural talent for foreseeing 

And knowing all things ; and should Park appear 

From his long tour in Africa, to show 

The Niger's source, they'd meet him with — "We know.' 

They love their land, because it is their own, 
And scorn to give aught other reason why ; 

Would shake hands with a king upon his throne. 
And think it kindness to his majesty ; 

A stubborn race, fearing and flattering none. 

Such are they nurtured, such they live and die : 

All — but a few apostates, who are meddling 

With merchandise, pounds, shillings, pence, and peddling 

Or wandering through the southern countries, teaching 
The ABC from Webster's spelling-book ; 

Gallant and godly, making love and preaching, 

And gaining by what they call "hook and crook," 

And what the moralists call overreaching, 
A decent living. The Virginians look 

Upon them with as favourable eyes 

As Gabriel on the devil in Paradise. 

319 



CONNECTICUT. 

But these are but their outcasts. View them near 
At home, where all their worth and pride is placed 

And there their hospitable fires burn clear. 

And there the lowliest farmhouse hearth is graced 

With manly hearts, in piety sincere, 

Faithful in love, in honour stern and chaste, 

In friendship warm and true, in danger brave, 

Beloved in life, and sainted in the grave. 

And minds have there been nurtured, whose control 

Is felt even in their nation's destiny; 
Men Avho swayed senates Avitli a statesman's soul, 

And looked on armies with a leader's eye ; 
Names that adorn and dignify the scroll, 

Whose leaves contain their country's histor}', 
And tales of love and war — listen to one 
Of the Green-Mountaineer — the Stark of Bennington. 



When on that field his band the Hessians fought. 

Briefly he spoke before the fight began : 
" Soldiers ! those German gentlemen are bought 

For four pounds eight and sevenpence per man, 
By England's king; a bargain, as is thought. 

Are we worth more? Let's prove it noAV we can; 
For we must beat them, boys, ere set of sun. 
Or Mary Stark's a waDow!" It was done. 



Hers are not Tempe's nor Arcadia's spi-ing. 
Nor the long summer of Cathayan vales. 

The vines, the flowers, the air, the skies, that flinj. 
Such wild enchantment o'er Boccaccio's tales 

( )f Florence and the Arno ; yet the wing 
Of life's best angel, Health, is on her gales 

Through sun and snow ; and in the autumn time 

Earth has no purer and no lovelier clime. 



HALLECK. 

Her clear, warm heaven at noon — the mist that shrouds 
Her twilight hills — her cool and starry eves, 

The glorious splendour of her sunset clouds. 

The rainbow beauty of her forest leaves, , 

Come o'er the eye, in solitude and crowds, 

Where'er his web of song her poet weaves ; / 

And his mind's brightest vision but displays 

The autumn scenery of his boyhood's days. 

And when you dream of woman, and her love ; 

Her truth, her tenderness, her gentle power ; 
The maiden listening in the moonlight grove. 

The mother smiling in her infant's bower ; 
Forms, features, worshipped while we breathe or move. 

Be by some spirit of your dreamuig hour 
Borne, like Loretto's chapel, through the air 
To the green land I sing, then wake, you'll find them there. 



ox THE DEATH OF 

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE, 

OF NEW YOEK, SEPT., 1820. 

" The good die first, 
And tliey, whose hearts are diy as summer dust, 
Burn to the socket." — Wokdswortii. 

Green be the turf above thee, 

Friend of my better days ! 
None knew thee but to love thee, 

Nor named thee but to praise. 

Tears fell, when thou wert djing, 
From eyes unused to weep. 

And long where thou art lying. 
Will tears the cold turf steep. 
321 



UN THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 

When hearts, whose truth was proven, 
Like thine, are laid in earth, 

There should a wreath be woven 
To tell the world their worth ; 

And I, who Avoke each morrow 

To clasp thy hand in mine. 
Who shared thy joy and sorrow, 

Whose weal and woe were thine : 

It should be mine to braid it 

Around thy faded brow, 
But I've in vain essayed it, 

And feel I cannot now. 

While memory bids me weep thee, 
Nor thoughts nor words are free, 

The grief is fixed too deeply 
That mourns a man like thee. 



322 



HORACE SMITH. 

THE FIRST OF MARCH. 

The bud is in the bough, and the leaf is in the bud, 
And Eai'th's beginning now in her veins to feel the blood. 
Which warm'd by summer suns in th' alembic of the vine, 
From her founts will over-run in a ruddy gush of wine. 

The perfume and the bloom that shall decorate the flower. 
Are quickening in the gloom of their subterranean bower ; 
And the juices meant to feed trees, vegetables, fruits. 
Unerringly proceed to their pre-appointed roots. 

How awful is the thought of the wonders underground. 

Of the mystic changes wrought in the silent, dark profound ; 

How each thing upward tends by necessity decreed. 

And a world's support depends on the shooting of a seed ! 

The summer's in her ark, and this sunny-pinion'd day 

Is commission'd to remark whether Winter holds her sway : 

Go back, thou dove of peace, with the myrtle on thy wing, 

Say that floods and tempests cease, and the world is rijK' foi- Spring 

Thou hast fann'd the sleeping Earth till her dreams are all of flowers 
And the waters look in mirth for their overhanging bowers; 
The forest seems to listen for the rustle of its leaves, 
And the very skies to glisten in the hope of summer eves. 

Thy vivifying spell has been felt beneath the wave. 
By the dormouse in its cell, and the mole within its cave ; 
And the summer tribes that creep, or in air expand their wing. 
Have started from their sleep at the summons of the Spring. 

.'523 



HARVEST HOME. 



The cattle lift their voices from the valleys and the hills. 
And the fcather'd race rejoices with a gush of tuneful bills ; 
And if this cloudless arch fills the poet's song with glee, 
O thou sunny first of March, be it dedicate to thee. 



DARLEY. 



HARVEST HOME. 



Down the dimpled green-sward dancing 
Bursts a flaxen-headed bevy, 

Bud-lipt boys and girls advancing, 
Love's irregular little le\T- 

Rows of liquid eyes in laughter. 

How they glimmer, how they quiver! 

vSparkling one another after, 
Like bright ripples on a river. 

Tipsy band of rubious faces, 

Flushed with joy's ethereal spirit, 

Make your mocks and sly grimaces 
At Love's self, and do not fear it. 
324 



PKAED. 



CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS. 



Once on a time, when sunny May 

Was kissing up the April showers, 
I saw fair Childhood hard at play 

Upon a bank of blushing flowers ; 
Happy, — he knew not whence or how; 

And smiling, — ^who could choose but love him? 
For not more glad than Childhood's brow. 

Was the blue heaven that beamed above him. 

Old Time, in most appalling wrath, 

That valley's green repose invaded; 
The brooks grew dry upon his path. 

The birds were mute, the lilies faded ; 
But Time so swiftly winged his flight, 

In haste a Grecian tomb to batter. 
That Childhood watched his paper kite, 

And knew just nothing of the matter. 

With curling lip, and glancing eye, 

Guilt gazed upon the scene a minute. 
But Childhood's glance of pmity 

Had such a holy spell within it, 
That the dark demon to the air 

Spread forth again his baffled pinion. 
And hid his envy and despair. 

Self-tortured, in his own dominion. 



CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS. 

Then stepped a gloomy phantom up, 

Pale, cypress-crowned, Night's awful daughter. 
And proftered him a fearful cup. 

Full to the brim of bitter water : 
Poor Childhood bade her tell her name. 

And when the beldame muttered "Sorrow," 
He said, — " Don't interrupt my game ; 

I'll taste it, if I must, to-morrow." 

The Muse of Pindus thither came. 

And wooed him with the softest numbers 
That ever scattered wealth and fame 

Upon a youthful poet's slumbers ; 
Though sweet the music of the lay. 

To CiHLDHOOD it was all a riddle. 
And " Oh," he cried, " do send away 

That noisy woman with the' fiddle." 

Then Wisdom stole his bat and ball, 

And taught him with most sage endeavour. 
Why bubbles rise, and acorns fall. 

And why no toy may last for ever : 
She talked of all the Avondrous laws 

Which Nature's open book discloses, 
And Childhood, ere she made a pause, 

Was fast asleep among the roses. 

Sleep on, sleep on ! — Oh ! Manhood's dreams 

Are all of earthly pain, or pleasure, 
Of Glory's toils, Ambition's schemes, 

Of cherished love, or hoarded treasure : 
But to the couch where Childhood lies 

A more delicious trance is given. 
Lit up b}' rays from Seraph-eyes, 

And glimpses of remembered heaven ! 



326 



m^^'\\\ 




THE VICAR. 



Some years ago, ere Time and Taste 

Had turn'd our Parish topsy-turvy, 
Wlicn Darnel Park was Darnel Waste, 

And roads as little known as scurvy, 
The man, who lost his Avay between 

St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket, 
Was always shown across the Green, 

And guided to the Parson's Avicket. 



^ THE VICAR. 

Back flew the bolt of lissom lath ; 

Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle, 
Led the lorn traveller up the path, 

Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle ; 
And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray, 

Upon the parlour steps collected, 
Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say, 

"Our master knows you; you 're expected." 

Up rose the Reverend Doctor Brown, 

Up rose the Doctor's " Avinsome marrow ;'" 
The lady laid her knitting down. 

Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow ; 
Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed. 

Pundit or Papist, saint or sinner, 
He found a stable for his steed. 

And welcome for himself, and dinner. 

If, when he reached his joiarney's end. 

And warmed himself in court or college, 
He had not gained an honest friend, 

And twenty curious scraps of knowledge ; — 
If he departed as he came. 

With no new light on love or liquor, — 
(iood sooth, the traveller was to blame. 

And not the Vicarage, or the Vicar. 



His talk Avas like a stream Avhich runs 

With rapid change from rocks to roses ; 
It slipped from politics to puns ; 

It passed from Mahomet to Moses ; 
Beginning Avith the laAvs which keep 

The planets in their radiant courses. 
And ending with some precept deep 

For dressing eels, or shoeing horses. 
328 



TRAED. 

He Avas a shrewd and sound divine, 

Of loud Dissent the mortal terror ; 
And when, by dint of page and line, 

He 'stablished Truth, or started Error, 
The Baptist found him far too deep ; 

The Deist sighed with saving sorrow ; 
And the lean Levite went to sleep, 

And dreamed of tasting pork to-morrow. 

Ilis sermon never said nor show'd 

That Earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious. 
Without refreshment on the road 

From Jerome, or from Athanasius ; 
And sure a righteous zeal inspired 

The hand and heart that penn'd and planii'd them. 
For all who understood admired, 

And some who did not understand them. 



And he was kind, and loved to sit 

In the low hut, or garnished cottage. 
And praise the farmer's homely wit. 

And share the widow's homelier pottage ; 
At his approach complaint grew mild. 

And when his hand unbarred the shutter. 
The clammy lips of Fever smiled 

The welcome, which they could not utter. 



He always had a tale for me 

Of Julius Cajsar, or of Venus : 
From him I learned the Rule of Three, 

Cat's-cradle, leap-frog, and Quas genus : 
I used to singe his powder'd wig. 

To steal the staff he put such trust in 
And make the pvippy dance a jig, 

When he began to quote Augustin. 
320 



A CHARADE. 

Alack the change! in vain I look 

For haunts in which my bojhood ti-iHetl,- 
The level lawn, the trickling brook, 

The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled : 
The church is larger than before ; 

You reach it by a carriage entry ; 
It holds three hundred people more; 

And pews are fitted up for gentry. 

Sit in the Vicar's seat : you '11 hear 

The doctrine of a gentle Johnian, 
Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear, 

Whose style is very Ciceronian. 
Where is the old man laid ? Look down, 

And construe on the slab before you, 
'' Hie jacct GuLiEorcs Broavn, 

Vir nulla non donandus lauro." 



A CHARADE. 

(THE WORD IS "CAMPBELL," THE POET.) 



Come from my First, ay, come ! 

The battle-dawn is nigh ; 
And the screaming trump and the thund'ring drum 

Are calling thee to die ! 
Fight as thy fathers fought, 

Fall as thy fathers fell! 
Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought; — 

So— forward ! and farewell' 
330 



PKAED. 

Toll ye, my Second ! toll ! 

Fling higli the flambeaux' light ; 
And sing the hymn for a parted soul, 

Beneath the silent night ! 
The wreath upon his head, 

The cross upon his breast, 
Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed ; 

So — take him to his rest ! 

Call ye, my Whole, ay, call ! 

The lord of lute and lay ; 
And let him greet the sable pall 

"With a noble song to-day; 
Go, call him by his name ; 

No fitter hand may crave 
To light the flame of a soldier's fame, 

(Jn the turf of a soldier's grave. 



331 



HOOD. 
THE ELM TREE.— A DREAM IN THE WOODS, 



" And this our lifo, exempt from publii- haunt. 
Fhids tongues in trees!" — -Is you Like it. 



Part I. 

'TwAS in a sliady Avenue, 
^Vliere lofty Elms abound — 
And from a Tree 
There came to me 
A sad and solemn sound, 
Tliat sometimes murmur'd overhead. 
And sometimes underground. 

Amongst the leaves it seemed to sigh. 

Amid the boughs to moan ; 
It muttcr'd in the stem, and then 

The roots took uj:) the tone ; 
As if beneath the dewy grass 

The dead began to groan. 

No breeze there was to stir the leaves: 
No bolts that tempests launch, 

To rend the trunk or rugged bark ; 
No gale to bend the branch ; 

No quake of earth to heave the roots. 
That stood so stiff and staunch. 
332 







But 8till the sound was in my ear, 

A sad and solemn sound, 
That sometimes miirmurd overhead, 
333 



THE ELM TREE. 

And sometimes undergi'ound — 
'Twas in a shady Avenue, 
Where lofty Elms abound. 

From poplar, pine, and drooping bii'ch, 
And fragrant linden trees ; 
No li\-ing sound 
E'er hovers round, 
Unless the vagrant breeze, 
The music of the merry bird. 
Or hum of busy bees. 

But busy bees forsake the Elm 
That bears no bloom aloft — 

Tlie finch was in the hawthorn-bush, 
The blackbird in the croft ; 

And among the firs the brooding dove. 
That else might murmur soft. 

Yet still I heard that soleimi sound, 

And sad it was to boot. 
From ev'ry overhanging bough. 

And each minuter shoot; 
From rugged trunk and mossy i-ind, 

And from the twisted root. 

From these, — a melancholy moan ; 

From those, — a dreary sigh ; 
As if the boughs were wintry bare, 

And wild winds sweeping by, — 
Whereas the smallest fleecy cloud 

Was steadfast in the sky. 

No sign or touch of stirring air 

Could either sense observe — 
The zephyr had not breath enough 
334 



HOOD. 

The tbistle-down to swerve. 
Or force the tihny gossamers 
To take another curve. 

In still and silent slumber liush'd 

All Nature seemed to be : 
From heaven above, or earth beneath, 

No whisper came to me — 
Except the solemn sound and sad 

From that Mysterious Teee! 

A hollow, hollow, hollow sound. 

As is that dreamy roar 
When distant billows boil and bound 

Along a shingly shore — 
But the ocean brim was far aloof, 

A hundred miles or more. 

No murmur of the gusty sea. 

No tumult of the beach. 
However they may foam and fret. 

The bounded sense could reach — 
Methought the trees in mystic tongue 

Were talking each to each ! — 

Mayhap, rehearsing ancient tales 
Of greeuAvood love or guilt. 
Of whisper'd vows 
Beneath their boughs ; 
Or blood obscurely spilt ; 
Or of that near-hand Mansion House 
A i-oyal Tudor built. 

With wary eyes, and ears alert. 

As one who walks afraid, 
I wander'd down the dappled path 



THE ELM TREE. 

Of mingled light ami shade — 
How sweetly gleam'd that arch of blue 
Beyond the green arcade ! 

How cheerly shone the glimpse of Heav'n 

Beyond that verdant aisle ! 
All overarch'd with lofty elms, 

That quench'd the light, the Avhilc, 
As dim and chill 
As serves to fill 
Some old Cathedral pile! 

And many a gnarled trunk was there, 

That ages long had stood, 
Till Time had wrought them into shapes 

Like Pan's fantastic brood ; 
Or still moi'e foul and hideous forms 

That Pagans carve in wood! 

A crouching Satyr lurking here. 

And there a Goblin grim — 
As staring full of demon life 

As Gothic sculptor's whim; 
A marvel it had scarcely been 

To hear a voice from him! 

Some whisper from that horrid mouth, 

Of strange, unearthly tone ; 
Or wild infernal laugh, to chill 

One's marrow in the bone. 
But no — it grins like rigid Death, 

And silent as a stone! 

As silent as its fellows be, 

For all is mute with them, — 
The branch that climbs the leafy roof — 
33G 



HOOD. 

Tlie rough and mossy stem — 

The crooked root — 

And tender shoot 
Where hangs the dewy gem. 

One mystic Tree alone there is, 
Of sad and solemn sound — 

I'hat sometimes murmurs overhead, 
And sometimes undergrounrl — 

In all that shady Avenue, 
Where lofty Elms abound. 



Part II. 

The Scene is changed ! No green Arcade. 

No trees all ranged a-row — 
But scatter'd like a beaten host, '' 

Dispersing to and fro ; 
With here and there a sylvan corse, 

That fell before the foe. 

The Foe that down in yonder dell 

Pursues his daily toil ; 
As witness many a prostrate trunk. 

Bereft of leafy spoil, 
Hard by its wooden stump, whereon 

The adder loves to coil. 

Alone he works — his ringing bIo\^'s 
Have banish'd bird and beast ; 

The hind and fawn have cantcrM oii' 
A hundred yards at least; 

And on the maple's lofty top, 
The linnet's song has ceased. 
337 



THE ELM THEE. 

No eye his labour overlooks, 

Or when he takes his rest ; 
Except the timid thrush that peeps 

Above her secret nest, 
Forbid by love to leave the young 

Beneath her speckled breast. 

The Woodman's heart is in his work, 

His axe is sharp and good: 
With sturdy arm and steady aim 
He smites the gaping wood ; 
From distant rocks 
His lusty knocks 
Re-echo many a rood. 

Aloft, upon his poising steel 

The \ivid sunbeams glance — 
About his head and round his feet 

Tlie forest shadows dance ; 
And bounding from his russet coat 

The acorn drops askance. 

[lis face is like a Druid's face, 

"Willi wrinkles furrow'd deep, 
And, tann'd by scorching svms, as brown 

As corn that's ripe to reap ; 
But the hair on brow, and check, and chin, 

Is white as wool of sheep. 

His frame is like a giant's frame ; 

His legs are long and stark ; 
His arms like limbs of knotted ycAv ; 
His hands like rugged bark ; 
So he felleth still 
"With right good will. 
As if to build an ark ! 
338 
# 




1 » , )'uw hA.f 



Oh ! well to hhii the tree might breathe 

A sad and solemn sound, 
A sigh that murmur'd overhead, 

And groans from nndergroinid ; 
As in that shady Avenue, 

Where loftv Elms abound ! 



But ealm and mute the maple stands, 
'Hie plane, the ash, the iir. 



3r>!» 



THE ELM TREE. 

The elm, the beech, the (lroo[)ing birch. 

Without the least demur ; 
Ami e'en the aspen's hoary leaf 

Makes no unusual stir. 

The pines — those old gigantic pines. 

That writhe — recalling soon 
The famous human group that writhes 

With snakes in wild festoon — 
In ramous wrestlings interlaced, 

A Forest Lilocoon — 

Like Titans of primeval girth 

By tortures overcome, 
Their brown enormous limbs they twine. 

Bcdcw'd with tears of gum — 
Fierce agonies that ought to yell, 

But, like the marble, dumb. 

Nay, yonder blasted Elm that stands 

So like a man of sin. 
Who, frantic, flings his arms abroad 

To feel the worm within — 
For all that gesture, so intense, 

It makes no sort of din ! 

An universal silence reigns 

In rugged bark or peel. 
Except that very trunk which rings 

Beneath the biting steel — 
^Fcanwhilc, the AVoodman plies his axe 

With inirelenting zeal ! 

No rustic song is on his tongue. 

No whistle on his lips ; 
But with a quiet thoughtfulness 
340 



HOOD. 

His trusty tool ho grips, 
And, stroke on stroke, keeps liacking out 
The bright and flying chips. 

Stroke after stroke, with frequent dint 

He spreads the fatal gash ; 
Till, lo ! the remnant fibres rend, 

With harsh and sudden crash. 
And on the dull resounding turf 

The jarring branches lash ! 

Oh ! now the Forest Trees may sigh, — 

The ash, the poplar tall. 

The elm, the birch, the drooping beech. 

The aspens — one and all. 

With solemn groan 

And hollow moan. 

Lament a comrade's fall ! 

A goodly Elm, of noble girth, 
That thrice the human span — 

While on their variegated course 
The constant Seasons ran. 

Through gale, and hail, and fiery bolt — 
Had stood erect as Man. 

But now, like mortal Man himself, 
Struck down by hand of God, 

Or heathen idol tumbled prone 
Beneath th' Eternal's nod. 

In all its giant bulk and length 
It lies along the sod ! — 

The echo sleeps : the idle axe, 

A disregarded tool. 
Lies crushing with its passive weight 
341 



I'HE ELM TREE. 

The toad's reputed stool ; 
Tlie Woodman Avipes his dewy hrow 
Within the shadows cooh 

No zephyr stirs : the car may catch 

The smallest insect-hum ; 
But on the disappointed sense 

No mystic whispers come ; 
No tone of sylvan sympathy — 

The Forest Trees are dumb. 

No leafy noise, nor inward voice, 
No sad and solemn sound, 

That sometimes murmurs overhead. 
And sometimes underground — 

As in that shady Avenue, 
Where lofty Elms abound ! 



Part III. 



The deed is done : the Tree is low 

That stood so long and firm ; 
The AVoodman and his axe are gone. 

His toil has found its term ; 
And where he wrought the speckled llivush 

Securely hunts the worm. 

The cony from the sandy liaiik 

ITas run a rapid race, 
Thi'ough thistle, bent, and tangled fern. 

To seek the open space ; 
And on its haunches sits erect 

To clean its furry face. 
3+2 



HOOD. 

The dappled fawn is close at hand. 

The hind is browsing near, — 
And on the larch's lowest bongli 
The ousel Avhistles clear ; 
But checks the note 
Within its throat, 
As choked with sudden fear! 

With sudden fear her wormy quest 

The thrush abruptly quits ; 
Through thistle, bent, and tangled fern 

The startled cony flits ; 
And on the larch's lowest bough 

No more the ousel sits. 
With sudden fear, 
The dappled deer 

Effect a swift escape ; 
But well might bolder creatures stai't 

And fl}^ or stand agape, 
With rising hair, and curdled blood. 

To see so grim a Shape ! 

The very sky turns pale above, 
The earth grows dark beneath ; 

The human Terror thrills with colil. 
And draws a shorter breath — 

An universal panic owns 

The dread approach of Death ! 

With silent pace, as shadows come. 

And dark as shadows be. 
The grisly Phantom takes his stand 

Beside the fallen Tree, 
And scans it with his gloomy eyes. 

And laughs with horrid glee — 

343 



THE ELM TREE. 

A dreary laugh and desolate, 
AVliere mirth is void and null, 

As hollow as its echo sounds 
Within the hollow skull : 

"' Whoever laid this Tree along. 
His hatchet was not dull ! 

The human arm and human tool 

Have done their duty well ! 
But after sound of ringing axe 
Must sound the ringing knell ; 
When elm or oak 
Have felt the stroke, 
My turn it is to fell !* 

No passive imregarded tree, 

A senseless thing of wood, 
Wherein the sluggish sap ascends 

To swell the vernal bud — 
But conscious, moving, breathing trunks 

That throb Avith living blood ! 

Ah! little recks the Eoyal mind. 

Within his Banquet-Hall, 
While tapers shine, and music breathes, 

And Beauty leads the ball, — 
He little recks the oaken plank 

Shall be his palace wall ! 

Ah! little dreams the haughty Peer, 
The while his falcon flies — 

Or on the blood-bedabbled turf 
The antler' d quarry dies — 

That in his own ancestral Pai-k 
The narrow dwelling lies ! 

344 



HOOD. 

But haughty Peer and mighty King 
One doom shall overwhelm ! 
The oaken cell 
Shall lodge him well 
Whose sceptre ruled a realm — 
While he who never knew a home 
Shall find it in the Elm! 

The tall abounding Elm that grows 
In hedgero\V'S up and down, 

In field and forest, copse and park. 
And in the peopled town. 

With colonies of noisy rooks 
That nestle on its crown. 

And w^ell th' abounding Elm may grow 

In field and hedge so rife, 
In forest, copse, and Avooded pai'k. 

And 'mid the city's strife, — 
For every hour that passes by 

Shall end a human life!" 

The Phantom ends : the shade is gone ; 

The sky is clear and bright ; 
On turf, and moss, and fallen Tree, 

There glows a ruddy light; 
And bounding through the golden fern 

The rabbit comes to bite. 

The thrush's mate beside her sits. 

And pipes a merry lay ; 
The dove is in the evergreens ; 

And on the larch's spray 
The fly-bird flutters up and down. 

To catch its tiny prey. 



345 



THE ELM TREE. 

Tlie gentle hind and da])pled fawn 

Are coming up the glade ; 
Eacli harmless furr'd and feathcr'd lliing 

Is glad, and not afraid — 
But on my sadden'd spirit still 

The Shadow leaves a shade : 

A secret, vague, prophetic gloom, 

As though by certain mark 
I knew the fore -appointed Tree, 

Within whose rugged bark 
This Avarm and living frame shall find 

Its narrow house and dark. 

That mystic Tree which breathed to me 

A sad and solemn sovmd. 
That sometimes murmur' d overhead. 

And sometimes underground — 
Within that shady Avenue, 

Where lofty Elms abound. 



MC, 



■'St?^ * 5i 







PRTNGLE. 



AFAR IN THE DESERT. 



Afau in the Desert 1 love to ride, 
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side : 
When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercust, 
And, sick of the Present, I cling to the Fast; 
When the eye is suffused with regretful tears, 
From the fond recollections of former years ; 

:U7 



AFAR IN THE DESERT. 

And i^hadows of things that have long since fled 

Flit over the brain like the ghosts of the dead ; 

And my Native Land, whose magical name 

Thrills to my heart like electric flame ; 

The home of my childhood ; the haunts of my prime ; 

All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time, 

Wlien the feelings were young, and the world was now. 

Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view ; — 

All — all now forsaken, forgotten, foregone ! 

And I, a lone exile, remembered of none ; 

My high aims abandoned, my good acts undone, 

Aweary of all that is under the sun, — 

With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan. 

I fly to the Desert, afar from man ! 

Afar in the Desert I love to ride, 

AVith the silent Bush-boy alone by my side : 

When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life, 

With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife, — 

The proud man's frown, and the base man's fear. 

The scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear, — 

And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and follv, 

Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy ; 

When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high. 

And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh ; 

Oh ! then there is freedom, and joy, and pride, 

Afar in the Desert alone to ride ! 

There is I'apture to vai;lt on the champing steed. 

And to bound away with the eagle's speed, 

With the death-fraught firelock in my hand, — 

The only law of the Desert Land. 

Afar in the Desert I love to ride. 
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side ; 
Away, away from the dwellings of men, 
By the wild-deei''s haunt, by the buffalo's glen ; 

348 



PEINGLE. 

By valleys remote, where the Oribi plays, 

Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartebeest graze. 

And the kudu and eland unhunted reclme 

By the skirts of grey forests o'erhung Avith wild a ine 

Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood, 

And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood, 

And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will 

In the fen Avhere the wild-ass is drinking his rill. 

Afar in the Desert I love to ride, 
With the silent Bush -boy alone by my side ; 
O'er the brown Karroo, where the bleating cry 
Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively ; 
And the timorous qviagga's shrill whistling neigh 
Is heard by the fountain at twilight grey; 
Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane. 
With Avild hoof scouring the desolate plain; 
And the fleet-footed ostrich over the Avaste 
Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste, 
flieing aAA'ay to the home of her rest. 
Where she and her mate have scoop' d their nest, 
Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's vicAv 
In the pathless depths of the parch'd Karroo. 

Afar in the Desert I love to ride, 
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side ; 
AAA^ay, aAvay in the Wilderness vast 
Where the White Man's foot hath never pass'd. 
And the quiver'd Coriinna or Bechuan 
Ilath rarely cross'd Avith his roving clan : 
A region of emptiness, hoAvling and drear. 
Which Man hath abandon'd from famine and fear ; 
Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone, 
With the tAvilight bat from the yawning stone ; 
Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root, 
Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot; 

349 



AFAR IN THE DESER'J'. 

And the bitter melon, for food and drink, 
Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt lake's bi-ink : 
A region of drought, where no river glides, 
Nor rippling brook with osiered sides; 
Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount, 
Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount, 
Appears, to refresh the aching eye ; 
But the barren earth and the burning sky, 
And the blank horizon, round and round, 
Spread — void of living sight or sound. 

And here, while the night winds round me sigh, 
And the stars burn bright in the midnio;lit skv ; 
As I sit apart by the desert stone, 
Like Elijah at Horeb's cave alone ; 
" A still small voice" comes through the wild 
(Like a father consoling his fretful child), 
Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear. 
Saying — "Man is distant, but God is near!' 



350 




LANDOR. 

THE WATER-NYMPH APPEARING TO THE SHEPHERD. 

'TwAs evening, though not sunset, and the tide. 
Level with these green meadows, seem'd yet higher : 
351 



THE WATER-NYMPH APPEARING TO THE SHEPHERD. 

'Twas pleasant; and I loosen'd from my neck 
The pipe you gave me, and began to play. 
Oil that I ne'er had learnt the tuneful art ! 
It always brhigs us enemies or love. 
Well, I was playing, Avhen above the waves 
Some swimmer's head methought I saw ascend ; 
I, sitting still, survey'd it, with my pipe 
Awkwardly held before my lips half-closed, — 
Gebir ! it was a Nymph ! a Nymph divine ! 
I cannot wait describing how she came, 
How I was sitting, how she first assum'd 
The sailor ; of what happen'd there remains 
Enough to say, and too much to forget. 
The sw'eet deceiver stcpt upon this bank 
Before I was aw^are ; for with surprise 
Moments fly rapid as with love itself. 
Stooping to tune afresh the hoarsen'd reed, 
I heard a rustling, and where that arose 
My glance first lighted on her nimble feet. 
Her feet resembled those long shells explored 
By him Avho to befriend his steed's dim sight 
Would blow the pimgent powder in the eye. 

Even her attire 
Was not of wonted woof nor vulgar art ; 
Her mantle show'd the yellow samphire-pod, 
Her girdle the dove-colour'd wave serene. 
"Shepherd," said she, "and will you wrestle now, 
And with the sailor's hardier race engage ?" 
I was rejoiced to hear it, and contrived 
How to keep up contention ; could I fail. 
By pressing not too strongly, yet to press? 
" "Wliether a shepherd, as indeed you seem, 
Or whether of the hardier race you boast, 
I am not daunted; no, I will engage!" 
"But first," said she, "what Avager will j-ou lay?" 
"A sheep," I answ'ered ; "add whate'er you will.'" 
352 



LAISTDOR. 

"I cannot," she replied, "make that return; 
Our hided vessels in their pitchy rovind 
Seldom, unless from rapine, hold a sheep. 
But I have sinuous shells of pearly hue 
Within, and they that lustre have imbibed 
In the sun's palace-porch, where when unyoked 
His chariot-wheel stands midway in the wave : 
Shake one and it awakens ; then apply 
Its polisht lips to your attentive ear, 
And it remembers its august abodes, 
And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there. 
And I have others given me by the nymphs. 
Of sweeter sound than any pipe you have. 
But we, by Neptune ! for no pipe contend, — 
This time a sheep I win, a pipe the next." 



RODERIGO AND JULIAN. 

THE REPROACH OF THE BEREAVED. 

Rod. Julian, thy gloomy soul still meditates — 
Plainly I see it — death to me : pursue 
The dictates of thy leaders ; let revenge 
Have its full sway; let Barbary prevail. 
And the pure creed her elders have embraced : 
Those placid sages hold assassination 
A most compendious supplement to law. 

Jul. Thou knowest not the one, nor I the other. 
Torn hast thou from me all my soul held dear; 
Her form, her voice, all hast thou banisht from me 
353 



RODERIGO AND JULIAN. 

Nor dare I, wretched as I am ! recal 

Those solaces of every grief erewhile. 

I stand abased before insulting crime, 

I falter like a criminal myself; 

The hand that hurl'd thy chariot o'er its wheels, 

That held thy steeds erect and motionless 

As molten statues on some palace-gate, 

Shakes as with palsied age before thee now. 

Gone is the treasure of my heart for ever, 

Without a father, mother, friend, or name. 

Daughter of Julian ! — Such was her delight — 

Such was mine too ! what pride, more innocent. 

What surely less deserving pangs like these, 

Than springs from filial and parental love! 

Debarr'd from every hope that issues forth 

To meet the balmy breath of early life, 

Her sadden'd days, all cold and colourless, 

Will stretch before her their whole weary length 

Amid the sameness of obscurity. 

She wanted not seclusion to unveil 

Her thoughts to heaven, cloister, nor midnight bell 

She found it in all places, at all hours : 

While to assuage my labours, she indulged 

A playfulness that shunn'd a mother's eye, 

Still to avert my perils there arose 

A piety that even from me retired. 



354 



JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE. 



NIGHT AND DEATH. 



Mysterious night! when our first parent knew 
Thee from report Divine, and heard thy name, 
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, 

This glorious canopy of light and blue? 

Yet, 'neath a curtain of translucent dew, 

Bathed in the rays of the gi'eat setting flame, 

Hesperus, with the host of heaven, came. 

And lo! creation widen'd in man's view. 

Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed 
Within thy beams, O sun! or who could find, 

Whilst fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed, 
That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind '. 

Why do we, then, shun death with anxious strife? 

If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life? 



355 




^s^^ 



KEBLE. 



•Consider the lilies of the ileld, how they grow." 



Sweet nurslings of the vernal skies, 
Bath'd in soft airs, and fed with dew. 
. 356 



KEBLE. 

What more than magic in you lies, 

To fill the heart's fond view? 
In childhood's sports, companions gay. 
In sorrow, on Life's downward way, 
How soothing! in our last decay, 
Memorials prompt and true. 

Eelics ye are of Eden's bowers, 
As pure, as fragrant, and as fair, 

As when ye crown'd the sunshine hours 
Of happy wanderers there. 

Fall'n all beside — the world of life, 

How is it stain'd with fear and strife ! 

In Reason's world what storms are rife, 
What passions range and glare! 

But cheerful and unchang'd the while 
Your first and perfect form ye show. 

The same that won Eve's matron smile 
In the world's opening glow. 

The stars of heaven a course are taught 

Too high above our human thought ; 

Ye may be found if ye are sought, 
And as we gaze, we know. 

Ye dwell beside our paths and homes, 

Our paths of sin, our homes of sorrow- 
And guilty man, where'er he roams, 
Your innocent mirth may borrow. 
The birds of air before us fleet. 
They cannot brook our shame to meet — 
But we may taste your solace sweet, 
And come again to-morrow. 

Ye fearless in your nests abide — 
Nor may we scorn, too proudly wise, 



CHILDEEN'S THANKFULNESS. 

Voiir silent lessons, undescried 

By all but lowly eyes : 
For ye could draw th' admiring gaze 
Of Him who worlds and hearts surveys : 
Your order wild, your fragrant maze, 

He taught us how to prize. 

Ye felt your Maker's smile that hour, 

As when He paused and o^\Ti'd you good 

His blessing on earth's primal bower, 
Y''e felt it all renew' d. 

What care ye now, if winter's storm 

Sweep ruthless o'er each silken form? 

Christ's blessing at your heart is warm, — 
Ye fear no vexing mood. 

Alas ! of thousand bosoms kind, 
That daily court you and caress, 

How few the happy secret find 
Of your calm loveliness ! 

"Live for to-day! to-morrow's light 

To-morrow's cares shall bring to sight; 

Go sleep, like closing flowers, at night, 
And Heaven thy morn will bless." 



CHILDREN'S THANKFULNESS. 

"A joyful and a pleasant thing it Is to be thankful. 

Why so stately, maiden fair, 

Rising in thy nurse's arms 
With that condescending air ; 

Gathering up thy queenly charms, 
358 



KEBLE. 

Like some gorgeous Indian bii'cl, 
Which, when at eve the bahny copse is stirr d, 

Turns the glowing neck to chide 
Th' irreverent foot-fall, then makes haste to hide 

Again its lustre deep 
Under the purple wing, best home of downy sleep? 

Not as yet she comprehends 

How the tongues of men reprove. 

But a spirit o'er her bends, 

Train'd in heaven to courteous love. 

And with wondering grave rebuke 
Tempers, to-day, shy tone and bashful look.— 

Graceless one, 'tis all of thee. 
Who for her maiden bounty, full and free, 

The violet from her gay 
Ajid guileless bosom, didst no word of thanks repay- 
Therefore, lo, she opens wide 

Both her blue and wistful eyes, — 

Breathes her grateful chant, to chide 
Our too tardy sympathies. 

Little babes and angels bright — 
They muse, be sure, and Avonder, day and night, 

How th' all-holy Hand should give, 
The sinner's hand in thanklessness receive. 

We see it and we hear. 
But wonder not : for why ? we feel it all too near. 

Not in vain, when feasts are spread, 

To the youngest at the board 
Call we to incline the head, 

And pronounce the solemn word. 
Not in vain they clasp and raise 
The soft, pure fingers in unconscious praise, — 
Taught, perchance, by pictur'd wall 
359 



CHILDREN'S THANKFULNESS. 

How little ones before the Lord may fall. 

How to His lov'd caress 
Reach out the restless arm, and near and nearer press. 

Children in their joyous ranks, 
As you pace the village street, 

FUl the air with smiles and thanks 
If but once one babe you greet. 

Never weary, never dim. 
From thrones seraphic mounts th' eternal hymn. 

Babes and angels grudge no praise : — 
But elder souls, to whom His saving ways 

Are open, fearless take 
Their portion, hear the Grace, and no meek answer make. 

Save our blessings, Master, save 
From the blight of thankless eye : 

Teach us for all joys to crave 
Benediction pure and high, 

Own them given, endure them gone, 
Shrink from their hardening touch, yet prize them won : 

Prize them as rich odours, meet 
For Love to lavish on His sacred feet ; — 

Prize them as sparkles bright 
Of heavenly dew, from yon o'erflowing well of light. 



360 



MILMAN. 

THE HEBREW WEDDING. 

To the sound of timbrels sweet, 
Moving slow our solemn feet, 
We have borne thee on the road, 
To the virgin's blest abode; 
With thy yellow torches gleaming, 
And thy scarlet mantle streaming, 
And the canopy above 
Swaying as we slowly move. 

Thou hast left the joyous feast, 
And the mirth and wine have ceast ; 
And now we set thee down before 
The jealously-unclosing door ; 
That the favour'd youth admits. 
Where the veiled virgin sits 
In the bliss of maiden fear, 
Waiting our soft tread to hear, 
And the music's brisker din, 
At the bridegroom's entering in: 
Entering in a welcome guest 
To the chamber of his rest. 

Chorus of Maidens. 

Now the jocund song is thine. 
Bride of David's kingly line; 
How thy dove-like bosom trembleth, 
And thy shrouded eye resembleth 
Violets, when the dews of eve 
A moist and tremulous glitter leave 
361 




On the bashful sealed lid ! 
Close within the bride-veil hid, 
Motionless thou sitt'st and mute ; 
Save that at the soft salute 
Of each entering maiden friend, 
Thou dost rise and softly bend. 



Hark ! a brisker, merrier glee ! 
The door unfolds, — 'tis he! 'tis he! 
Thus we lift our lamps to meet him, 
Thus we touch our lutes to greet him. 
Thou shalt give a fonder meeting, 
Thou shalt give a tenderer greeting. 
362 



MILMAN. 



THE COMING OF THE JUDGE. 

Even thus, amid thy pride and luxury, 

O Earth ! shall that last coming burst on thee, 

That secret coming of the Son of Man. 
When all the cherub-throning clouds shall shine, 
Irradiate Avitli his bright advancing sign : 

When that Great Husbandman shall wave his fan, 
Sweeping, like chaff, thy wealth and pomp aA\ay : 
Still, to the noontide of that nightless day, 

Shalt thou thy wonted dissolute course maintain. 
Along the busy mart and crowded street. 
The buyer and the seller still shall meet, 

And marriage-feasts begin their jocund strain : 
Still to the pouring out the Cup of Woe; 
Till Earth, a drunkard, reeling to and fro, 
And mountains molten by his burning feet. 
And Heaven his presence own, all red with furnace heat. 

The hundred-gated Cities then. 

The Towers and Temples, nam'd of men 
Eternal, and the Thrones of Kings ; 

The gilded summer Palaces, 

The courtly bowers of love and ease, 

Where still the Bird of Pleasure sings ; — 

Ask ye the destiny of them? 

Go, gaze on fallen Jerusalem! 
Yea, mightier names are in the fatal roll, 

'Gainst earth and heaven God's standard is unfurl'd ; 
The skies are shrivell'd like a burning scroll, 

And the vast common doom ensepulchres the world. 

Oh ! who shall then survive ? 
Oh ! who shall stand and live ■? 
363 



THE COMNG OF THE JUDGE. 

>Vlien all that hath been is no more : 

When for the round earth hung in ah-, 

With all its constellations fail' 
In the sky's azure canopy ; 
When for the breathing Earth, and sparkling Sea, 

Is but a fiery deluge without shore, 
Heaving along the abyss profound and dark, 
A fiery deluge, and mthout an Aek. 

Lord of all power, when thou art there alone 
On thy eternal fiery-wheeled throne. 

That in its high meridian noon 

Needs not the perish'd sun nor moon : 
When thou art there in thy presiding state. 

Wide-sceptred Monarch o'er the realm of doom ; 

When from the sea-depths, from earth's darkest womb, 
The dead of all the ages round thee wait : 
And when the tribes of wickedness are strown 

Like forest-leaves in th' autumn of thine ire : 
Faithful and True! thou still wilt save thine o-rti ! 

The Saints shall dwell within th' unharmins fire: 
Each white robe spotless, blooming every palm. 

Even safe as we by this still fountain's side, 

So shall the Church, thy bright and mystic Bride, 
Sit on the stormy gulf a halcyon bird of calm. 

Yes, 'mid yon angry and destroying sig-ns, 

O'er us the rainbow of thy mercy shines; 

We hail, we bless the covenant of its beam, 
Almighty to avenge, Almightiest to redeem. 



364 



LEIGH HUNT. 



AN ITALIAN GARDEN. 

A NOBLE range it was, of many a rood, 

Wall'd round with trees, and ending in a wood: 

Indeed, the whole was leafy; and it had 

A winding stream about it, clear and glad, 

That danced from shade to shade, and on its way 

Seem'd smiling with delight to feel the day. 

There was the pouting rose, both red and white, 

The flamy heart's-ease, flush'd with purple light, 

Blush-hiding strawberry, sunny-colored box, 

Hyacinth, handsome with, his clustering locks. 

The lady lUy, looking gently down, 

Pure lavender, to lay in bridal-gown, 

The daisy, lovely on both sides, — ui short, 

All the sweet cups to which the bees resort. 

With plots of grass, and perfum'd walks between 

Of sweetbrier, honeysuckle, and jessamine. 

With orange, whose warm leaves so finely suit. 

And look as if they shade a golden fruit ; 

And 'midst the flowers, turf'd round beneath a shade 

Of circling pines, a babbling fountain play'd, 

And 'twixt their shafts you saw the water bright. 

Which through the darksome tops glimmer'd with showering 

light. 
So now you walk'd beside an odorous bed 
Of gorgeous hues, pui'ple, and gold, and red ; 
And now turn'd off into a leafy walk. 
Close and continuous, fit for lovers' talk; 

3G5 




And now pursued the stream, and as you trod 
Onward and onward o'er the velvet sod, 
Felt on your face an air, watery and sweel, 
And a new sense in your soft-lighting feet ; 

3CG 



LEIGH HUNT. 

And then, perhaps, you enter'd upon shades, 

Pillow'd Avith dells and uplands 'twixt the glades, 

Through which the distant palace, now and then, 

Look'd lordly forth with many-window' d ken, — 

A land of trees, which reaching round about. 

In shady blessing stretch'd their old arms out, 

With spots of sunny opening, and with nooks 

To lie and read in, sloping into brooks. 

Where at her drink you startled the slim deer, 

Retreating lightly with a lovely fear. 

And all about, the birds kept leafy house, 

And sung and darted in and out the boughs ; 

And all about, a lovely sky of blue 

Clearly was felt, or down the leaves laugh'd through 

And here and there, in every part, were seats, 

Some in the open walks, some in retreats 

With bowering leaves o'erhead, to which the eye 

Look'd up half sweetly and half awfully, — 

Places of nestling green, for poets made, 

Where, when the sunshine struck a yellow shade, 

The rugged trunks, to inward-peeping sight, 

Throng'd in dark pillars up the gold green light. 

But 'twixt the wood and flowery walks, half-way, 
And form'd of both, the loveliest portion lay, 
A spot that struck you like enchanted ground : 
It was a shallow dell, set in a mound 
Of sloping shrubs, that mounted by degrees — 
The birch and poplar mixed with heavier trees ; 
Down by whose roots, descending darkly still, 
(You saw it not, but heard) there gusli'd a rill, 
Whose low sweet talking seem'd as if it said 
Something eternal to that happy shade. 
Tlie ground within was lawn, with plots of flowers 
Ileap'd towards the centre, and with citron bowers ; 
And in the midst of all, cluster'd with bay 
And myrtle, and just glancing to the day, 

3G7 



ABOU BEN ADHEM. 

Lurk'd a pavilion, — a delicious sight, — 
Small, marble, weU-proportion'd, mellowy white, 
With yellow vine-leaves sprinkled, — but no moi'e,- 
And a young orange either side the door. 
The door was to the wood, forward and square ; 
The rest was domed at top, and circular; 
And through the dome the only light came in. 
Tinged, as it enter'd, with the vine-leaves thin. 



ABOU BEN ADHEM. 

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) 
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, 
And saw, Avithin the moonlight in his room. 
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom. 
An Angel writing in a book of gold: — 
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold. 
And to the Presence in the room he said, 
"What writest thou?" — The Vision rais'd its head, 
And with a look made of all sweet accord, 
Answer'd, "The names of those who love the Lord." 
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so," 
Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low. 
But cheei'ly still ; and said, " I pray thee then, 
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." 

1'he Angel wrote, and vanish'd. The next night 
It came again with a great wakening light, 
And show'd the names whom love of God had bless'd, 
And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led aU the rest. 



3G8 




CROLY. 



THE ALHAMBRA. 



Palace of Beauty! where tlio Mooiisli Lord, 
King of the bow, the bridle, and the sword. 
Sat like a Genie in the diamond's blaze. 
Oh ! to have seen thee in the ancient days, 
When at thy morning gates the coursers stood. 
The " thousand" milk-white, Yemen's fiery blood, 
In pearl and ruby harness'd for the King; 
And through thy portals pour'd the gorgeous flood 
Of je weird Sheik and Emir, hastening. 
Before the sky the daA\aiing purple show'd, 
Their turbans at the Caliph's feet to fling. 
Lovely thy morn — thy evening lovelier still. 
When at the waking of the first blue star 
That trembled on the Atalaya hill. 
The splendours of the trumpet's voice arose, 

369 A A 



THE ALHAMBRA. 

Brilliant and bold, and yet no gound of war; 

But sumiuoning thy beauty from repose, 

The shaded slumber of the burning noon. 

Then in the slant sun all thy fountains shone, 

Shooting the spai'kling column from the vase 

Of crystal cool, and falling in a haze 

Of rainbow hues on floors of porphyry, 

And the rich bordering beds of every bloom 

That breathes to African or Indian sky, 

Carnation, tuberose, thick anemone ; 

Then was the harping of the minstrels heard, 

In the deep arbours, or the regal hall, 

Hushing the tumult of the festival. 

When the pale bard his kindling eye-ball rear'd. 

And told of Eastern glories, silken hosts, 

Tower'd elephants, and chiefs in topaz arm'd ; 

Or of the myriads from the cloudy coasts 

Of the far Western sea, — the sons of blood. 

The iron men of tournament and feud, 

That round the bulwarks of their father swarm' d, 

Doom'd by the Moslem scimitar to fall. 

Till the Ked Cross was hurl'd from Salem's wall. 

Where are thy pomps, Alhambra, earthly sun, 
That had no rival, and no second ? — gone ! 
Thy glory down the arch of time has roll'd, 
Like the great day-star to the ocean dim. 
The billows of the ages o'er thee swim, 
Gloomy and fathomless ; thy tale is told. 
Where is thy horn of battle? that, but blown, 
Brought every chief of Afric from his throne; 
Brought every spear of Afric from the wall ; 
Brought every charger barbed from the stall, 
Till all its tribes sat mounted on the shore; 
Waiting the waving of thy torch to pour 
The living deluge on the fields of Spain. 
Queen of Earth's loveliness, there was a stain 

370 



CROLY. 



Upon thy brow — the stain of guilt and gore : 

Thy course was bright, bold, treach'rous — and 'tis o'er. 

The spear and diadem are from thee gone ; 

Silence is now sole monarch of thy throne! 



FLORA. 



The flowers are Nature's jewels, with whose wealth 
She decks her Summer beauty; Primrose s\yeet, 
With blossoms of pure gold ; enchanting Rose, 
That, like a virgin queen, salutes the Sun, 
Dew-diadem'd ; the perfumed Pink, that studs 
The earth with clustering ruby; Hyacinth, 
The hue of Venus' tresses ; Myrtle green, 
That maidens think a charm for constant love. 
And give night-kisses to it, and so dream ; 
Fair Lily! woman's emblem, and oft twined 
Round bosoms, where its silver is unseen. 
Such is their whiteness; downcast Violet, 
Turning away its sweet head from the wind, 
As she her delicate and startled ear 
From passion's tale! 



,{71 



FERGUSON. 



THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. 



(^OME, see the Dolphin's Anchor forged; 'tis at a white heat now : 
The bellows ceased, the flames decreased ; though on the forge's brow, 
The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound ; 
And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round, 
All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare ; 
Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there. 

The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves below ; 

And red and deep, a hundred veins burst out at every throe: 

It rises, roars, rends all outright — O, Vulcan, w^hat a glow! 

'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright; the high sun shines not so! 

The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show; 

The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row 

Of smiths, that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe ; 

As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster, slow 

Sinks on the anvil — all about the faces fiery grow — 

•' Hurrah !" they shout, " leap out — leap out ;" bang, bang, the sledges go : 

Hurrah ! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low ; 

A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow; 

The leathern mail rebounds the hail ; the rattling cinders strow 

The ground around ; at every bound the sweltering fountains Hoav ; 

And thick and loud the SAvinking crowd, at everj- stroke, pant "ho!" 

Leap out, leap out, my masters ; leap out and lay on load ! 
Let's foi'ge a goodly anchor ; a Bower, thick and broad ; 
For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow I bode ; 
And I see the good ship riding all in a perilous road. 

372 



FERGUSON. 

The low reef rolling on her lee ; the roll of ocean poured 

From stem to stern, sea after sea; the mainmast by the board; 

The bulwarks down ; the rudder gone ; the boats stove at the chains : 

But courage still, brave mariners — the Bower yet remains. 

And not an inch to flinch he deigns save when ye pitch sky high. 

Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing — here am I!" 

S\\'ing in your strokes in order; let foot and hand keep time. 

Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime ; 

But while ye swing your sledges, sing ; and let the burden be, 

The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we! 

Strike in, strike in — the sparks begin to dull their rustling red; 

Our hammers ring Avith sharper din, our work will soon be sped : 

Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array 

For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay ; 

Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here. 

For the yeo-heave-o', and the heave-away, and the sighing seaman's cheer : 

When, weighing slow, at eve they go, far, far from love and home ; 

And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam. 

In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at last; 
A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat was cast. — 
O trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me, 
What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea I 
O deep sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as thou? 
The hoary monsters' palaces! methinks what joy 'twere now 
To go plumb plunging down amid the assembly of the whales, 
And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their scourging tails ] 
Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea unicorn. 
And send him foiled and bellowing Ijack, for all his ivory horn ; 
To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony blade forlorn ; 
And for the ghastly-grinning shark to laugh his jaws to scorn ; 
To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid Norwegian isles 
He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallowed miles ; 
Till snorting, like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls ; 
Meanwhile to swing, a-buiFeting the far-astonished shoals 

373 



THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. 

Of his back -browsing ocean calves ; or, haply in a cove, 
Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to some Undine's love, 
To find the long-haired mermaidens ; or, hard by icy lands, 
To wrestle with the sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands. 

O broad-armed fisher of the deep, whose sports can equal t^iine ? 

The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons that tugs thy cable line ; 

And night by night 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day, 

Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play ; 

But, shamer of our little sports ! forgive the name I gave, 

A fisher's joy is to destroy — thine ofiice is to save. 

O lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst thou but understand 

AYhose be the white bones by thy side, or who that dripping band, 

Slow swaying in the heaving waves that round about thee bend, 

With sounds like breakers in a dream blessing their ancient friend : 

Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee, 

Thine iron side Avould swell with pride ; thou'dst leap within the sea ! 

Give honour to their memories who left the pleasant strand, 

To shed their blood so freely for the love of fatherland. 

Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy churchyard grave, 

So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave : 

Oh, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung. 

Honour him for their memory, whose bones he goes among I 



374 




MOULTRIE. 



THE THREE SONS. 



I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old, 
With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould : 
They tell me that unusual gi-ace in all his ways appears, 
That my child is gi-ave and wise of heart beyond his childish years. 
I cannot say how this may be, — I know his face is fair. 
And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air: 
I know his heart is kind and fond, I know he loveth me, 
But loveth yet his mother more with grateful fervency. 

375 



THE THREE SONS. 

But that which others most admii-e is the thought which tills his mind ; 

The food for grave inquiring speech he everywhere doth find : 

Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together walk ; 

He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk ; 

Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball, 

IJut looks on manhood's wa}S and works, and aptly mimics all. 

His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplext 

With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next : 

He kneels at his dear mother's knee, she teaches him to pray, 

And strange, and sweet, and solemn then are the words which he \Aill p;iy. 

Oh, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years like me, 

A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be : 

And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful brow, 

I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now. 

I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three ; 

ril not declare how bright and fair his little features be, 

How silver sweet those tones of his when he i^rattles on my knee. 

I do not think his light-blue eye is, like his brother's, keen, 

Nor his brov/ so full of childish thought as his hath ever been ; 

But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and tender feeling, 

And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love revealing. 

When he walks with me, the country folk, Avho pass us in the street. 

Will shout Avith joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and sweet. 

A playfellow is he to all, and yet, with cheerful tone. 

Will sing his little song of love, when left to sport alone. 

His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden home and hearth. 

To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth. 

Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may prove 

As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly love. 

And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim, 

God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in liira. 

I have a son, a third sweet son ; his age I can not tell. 
For they reckon not by years or months Avhere he is gone to dwell. 
To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were given. 
And then he bade farewell to Earth, and went to live in Heaven. 

376 



MOULTRIE. 

1 cannot lull what form is his, what looks he wearcth now, 

Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining f=eraph bro^\ . 

The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth leel, 

Are number' (1 with the secret things which God will not reveal. 

But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at rest, 

Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving breast. 

I know his spirit feels no more this Aveary load of flesh. 

Hut his sleep is bless'd with endless dreams of joy for ever fresh. 

I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering wings, 

And soothe him with a song that breathes of Heaven's divinest things. 

I know that we shall meet our babe, (liis mother dear and I,) 

AVhen God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye. 

Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease ; 

Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace. 

It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss may sever. 

But if our owii poor faith fail not, lie must be ours for ever. 

When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must be, — 

\VTien we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this world's misery, — 

When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain. — 

Oh ! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him here again. 



.'?77 



'forge;t thee?- 



« FORGET THEE ?" 

" I'oRGET thee ?" if to dream b}^ night, and muse on thee by day, 

li" all the worship deep and wild a poet's heart can pay, 

II" prayers in absence breathed for thee to Heaven's protecting powci-, 

If winged thoughts that flit to thee, — a thousand in an hour, 

If busy Fancy blending thee Avith all my future lot, — 

If this thou call'st " foi'getting," thou, indeed, shalt be forgot! 

"Forget thee?" Bid the forest-birds forget their sweetest tune; 
" Forget thee ?" Bid the sea forget to swell beneath the moon ; 
Bid the thu'sty flowers forget to drink the eve's refreshing dew; 
Thyself forget thine own " dear land" and its " mountains wUd and blue. 
Forget each old fomiliar face, each long-remember'd spot, — 
When these things are forgot by thee, then thou shalt be forgot! 

Keep, if thou wilt, thy maiden peace, still calm and fancy-free, 
F'or God forbid thy gladsome heart should grow less glad for me ; 
Yet, while that heart is still unwon, oh! bid not mine to rove, 
But let it nurse its humble faith, and uncomplaining love ; — 
If these, preserved for patient years, at last avail me not, 
Forget me then ; — but ne'er believe that thou canst be forgot ! 



378 




MACAULAY. 



THE SPANISH ARMADA. 



Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise; 
I tell of the thrice-famous deeds she wrought in ancient days, 
When that great Fleet Invincible against her bore in vani 
The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain. 
It was about the lovely close of a w^arm summer day, 
There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to Plymouth Baj- 

371) 



THE SPANISH ARMADA. 

Her crew hath seen Castile's black lieet, beyond Aurigny's i«le. 

At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many a mile; 

At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial grace ; 

And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her close in chase. 

Forthwith a guard at every gun Avas placed along the wall ; 

The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecumbe's lofty hall; 

Many a light fishing-bark put out to pry along the coast; 

And with loose rein and bloody spur rode inland many a post. 

With his white hair unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes ; 

Behind him march the halberdiers ; before him sound the drums ; 

His yeomen round the market-cross make clear an ample space, 

For there behoves him to set up the standard of Her Grace. 

And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells. 

As slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon swells. 

Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown. 

And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down. 

So stalked he Avhen he turned to flight, on that famed Picard field, 

Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Caesar's eagle shield : 

So glared he Avhen at Agincoui't in wrath he turned to bay, 

And crushed and torn beneath his claws the princely hunters lay. 

Ho ! strike the flagstaff deep, Sir Knight : ho ! scatter flowers, fair maids : 

Ho! gunners, fire a loud salute: ho! gallants, draw your blades: 

Thou sun, shine on her joyously — ye breezes, waft her wide ; 

Our glorious Semper Eadem, the banner of our pride. 

The freshening breeze of eve imfurl'd that banner's massy fold, 
The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold ; 
Night sunk upon the dusky beach, /md on the purple sea, 
Such night in England ne'er had been, nor e'er again shall be. 
From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford Bay, 
That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day ; 
For swift to east and swift to Avest the ghastly Avar-flame spread ; 
High on St. Michael's Mount it shone : it shone on Beachy Plead. 
Far on the deep the Spaniard saAv, along each southern shire. 
Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those tAAinkling points of fire ; 
The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's glittering waves : 
The rugged miners poured to Avar from Mendip's sunless caACS : 
O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Cranbourne's oaks, the fiery herald flew : 

380 



MACAULAY. - 

lie roused the sheplierds of Stonehenge, the rangers of Beaulieu : 
Kight sharp and quick the bells all night rang out from Bristol town 
And ere the day three hundred horse had met on Clifton down ; 
The sentinel on Whitehall Gate looked forth into the night, 
And saw o'erhanging Eichmond Hill the streak of blood-red light. 
Then bugle's note and cannon's roar the death-like silence broke, 
And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke. 
At once on all her stately gates arose the answering fires ; 
At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires ; 
From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the voice of fear ; 
And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder cheer ; 
And from the farthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet. 
And the broad streams of flags and pikes dashed down each roaring street : 
And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din, 
As fast from every village round the horse came spurring in : 
And eastward straight from wild Blackheath the Avarlike errand went. 
And roused in many an ancient hall the gallant squires of Kent. 
Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills flew those bright couriers forth: 
High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor they started for the north; 
And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded stUl, — 
All night from tower to tower they sprang ; they sprang from hill to hill : 
Till the proud peak unfurFd the flag o'er Darwin's rocky dales, 
Till like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales, 
Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's lonely height. 
Till streamed in crimson on the wdnd the Wrekin's crest of light. 
Till broad and fierce the star came forth on Ely's stately fane, 
And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the boundless plain : 
Till Bel voir' s lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent, 
And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide vale of Trent ; 
Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's embattled pile, 
And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle. 



381 



MOTHERWELL. 



JEANIE MORRISON. 



I've wandered east, I've -vvandered west, 

Tlii-ougli mony a weary way ; 
But never, never can forget 

The luve o' life's young day ! 
The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en, 

May wecl be black gm Yule ; 
But blacker fa' awaits the heart 

Where first fond luve grows cule. 

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

The thochts o' bygane years 
Still fling their shadows ower my path, 

And blind my een wi' tears : 
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, 

And sair and sick I pine. 
As memory idly summons up 

The blithe blinks o' langsyne. 

'Twas then we luvit ilk ither wcel. 

'Twas then we twa did part ; 
Sweet time — sad time ! twa bairns at scule, 

Twa bairns, and but ae heart ! 
'Twas then avc sat on ae laigh bink. 

To leir ilk ither lear ; 
And tones, and. looks, and smiles were shed, 

Remembered evermair. 
382 



MOTHERWELL. 

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, 

When sitting on that bink. 
Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof, 

What our wee heads could think? 
When baith bent doun ower ae braid page, 

Wi' ae buik on our knee. 
Thy lips Avere on thy lesson, but 

My lesson was in thee. 



Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads, 

How cheeks brent red wi' shame, 
Whene'er the scule-weans laughin' said. 

We cleek'd thegither hame? 
And mind ye o' the Saturdays, 

(The scule then skail't at noon,) 
When we ran aff to speel the braes — 

The broomy braes o' June? 

My head rins round and round about, 

My heart flows like a sea, 
As ane by ane the thochts rush back 

O' scule-time and o' thee. 
Oh, mornin' life ! oh, mornin' luve ! 

Oh lichtsome days and lang, 
When hinnied hopes around our hearts 

Like simmer blossoms sprang! 

Oh mind ye, luve, how aft we left 

The deavin' dinsome toun, 
To wander by the green burnside, 

And hear its waters croon? 
The simmer leaves hung ower our heads. 

The flowers burst round our feet, 
And in the gloamin' o' the wood. 

The throssil whusslit sweet ; 
383 



JEANIE MORRISON. 

Tlic thro.ssil whusslit in the wood. 

The burn sang to the tree?, 
And we with Nature's heart in tunc. 

Concerted harmonies; 
And on the knowe abune the burn. 

For hours thegither sat 
In the silentness o' joj^, till baitli 

Wi' very gladness grat. 

Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

Tears trinkled doun your cheek, 
like dew-beads on a rose, yet naiie 

Had ony power to speak ! 
That Avas a time, a blessed time. 

When hearts Avere fresh and young, 
When freely gushed all feelings forth, 

Unsyllabled — unsung ! 



I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, 

Gin I hae been to thee 
As closely twined wi' earliest thochts, 

As ye hae been to me? 
Oh ! tell me gin their music fills 

Tliine ear as it does mine ; 
Oh ! say gin e'er your heart grows gril 

Wi' dreamings o' langsyne? 



I've wandered cast, I've wandered west, 

I've borne a weary lot ; 
But in my wanderings, far or near. 

Ye never were forgot. 
The fount that first burst frae this hoarl. 

Still travels on its Avay; 
And channels deeper as it rins, 

Tlic luve o' life's young day. 
384 



MOTHERWELL. 

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

Since we were sindered young, 
I've nev^er seen your face, nor heard 

The music o' your tongue ; 
But I could hug all wretchedness. 

And happy could I die, 
Did I but ken your heart still dreamed 

O' bygane days and me ! 



THEY COME ! THE MERRY SUMMER MONTHS. 



TiiEY come ! the merry summer months of Beauty, Song, and Flowers 

They come ! the gladsome months that bring thick leafiness to bowers. 

Up, up, my heart, and walk abroad, fling cark and care aside. 

Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peaceful waters glide ; 

Or, underneath the shadow vast of patriarchal tree. 

Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt tranquillity. 

The grass is soft, its velvet touch is grateful to the hand. 

And like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze is sweet and bland ; 

The daisy and the buttercup are nodding courteously, 

It stirs their blood Avith kindest love, to bless and welcome thee : 

And mark how with thine own thin locks, — they now are silvery grey. — 

That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whispering "Be gay!" 

Tliere is no cloud that sails along the ocean of yon sky. 
But hath its OAvn Avinged mariners to give it melody: 
Thou seest their glittering fans outspread all gleaming like red gold ; 
And hark ! Avith shrill pipe musical, their merry course they hold. 

385 I! 11 



A SOLEMN CONCEIT. 

God bless them uU, these little ones, who far above this earth, 
Can make a scoif of its mean joys, and vent a nobler mirth. 

But soft ! mine ear upcaught a sound ; from yonder wood it came ; 
The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his o^^-n glad name ;— 
Yes, it is he ! the hermit bird, that apart from all his kind 
Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft western wind ; 
Cuckoo! Cuckoo! he sings again, — his notes are void of art. 
But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep founts of the heart I 

Good Lord! it is a gracious boon for thought-crazed wight like me. 
To smell again these summer flowers beneath this summer tree ! 
To suck once more in every breath their little souls away, 
And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth's bright summer day. 
When rushing forth like untamed colt, the reckless truant boy 
Wandered through green woods all day long, a mighty heart oi' jo}' '. 

I'm sadder now, I have had cause; but O! I'm proud to think 
That each pure joy-fount loved of yore, I yet delight to drink ; — 
Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the calm unclouded sky. 
Still mingle music in my dreams as in the days gone by. 
When summer's loveliness and light fall round me dark and cold, 
I'll bear indeed life's heaviest curse, — a heart that hath waxed old ! 



A SOLEMN CONCEIT. 

Stateia' trees are groAving, 
Lusty winds are blowing. 
And mighty rivers flowing 

On, for ever on. 
As stately forms were growing, 
As lusty spirits blowing. 
As mighty fancies flowing 

On, for ever on ; 
38G 



MOTHERWELL. 

But there has been leave-taking, 
Sorrow and heart-breaking, 
And a moan, pale Echo's making, 
For the gone, for ever gone ! 

Lovely stars are gleaming. 
Bearded lights are streaming, 
And glorious suns are beaming 

On, for ever on. 
As lovely eyes were gleaming, 
As wondrous lights were streaming, 
As glorious minds Avere beaming 

On, for ever on ; — 
But there has been soul-sundering, 
Wailing, and sad wondering ; 
For graves grow fat with plundering 

The gone, for ever gone ! 

We see great eagles soaring. 
We hear deep oceans roaring. 
And sparkling fountains pouring 

On, for ever on. 
As lofty ones were soaring, 
As sonorous voices roaring, 
And as sparkling wits were pouring 

On, for ever on ; — 
But, pinions have been shedding. 
And voiceless darkness spreading. 
Since a measure Death's been treaduig 

O'er the gone, for ever gone ! 

Eveiy thing is sundering, 

Elvery one is wondering. 

And this huge globe goes thundering 

On, for ever on. 
But, 'mid this weary sundering. 
Heart-breaking and sad wondering, 
387 



A SOLEMN CONCEIT. 

And this huge globe's rude thunderinc: 

On, for ever on, 
I would that I A^ere dreaming 
Where little flowers are gleaming, 
And the long green grass is sti'eaming 

O'er the gone, for ever gone ! 



388 



TAYLOR. 

ARTEVELDE IN GHENT. 

THE PLATrOEM AT THE TOP OF THE STEEPLE OF ST. NICHOLAS' CniTKCU. — TIME —PAY- IJKEAK 

ARTEVELDE (aloue). 

There lies a sleeping city. God of dreams! 
Wliat an vuireal and fantastic world 
Is going on below ! 

Within the sweep of yon encircling wall, 
How many a large creation of the night, 
Wide wilderness and mountain, rock and sea, 
Peopled with busy transitory groups. 
Finds room to rise, and never feels the crowd ! 
— ^If when the shows had left the dreamers' eyes 
They should float upward visibly to mine. 
How thick with apparitions were that void! 
But now the blank and blind profundity 
Turns my brain giddy with a sick aversion. 
— I have not slept. I am to blame for that. 
•Long vigils, join'd with scant and meagre food, 
Must needs impair that promptitude of mind, 
And cheerfulness of spirit, which, in him 
Who leads a midtitude, is past all price. 
I think I could redeem an hour's repose 
Out of the night that I have squander' d, yet. 
The breezes, launch'd upon their early voyage, 
Play with a pleasing freshness on my face. 
I will enfold my cloak about my limbs, 
And lie where I shall front them;— here, I think. 

[//e Hes doivn. 
389 



ARTEVELDE IN GHENT. 

If this were over — blessed be the calm 
That comes to me at last! A friend in need 
Ts natm-e to us, that, when all is spent, 
IJrings slumber — bountifully — whereupon 
We give her sleepy welcome — if all this 
Were honourably over — Adrianna — 

[Falls asleep, hut starts up almost instanthj. 
I heard a hoof, a horse's hoof I'll swear. 
Upon the road from Bruges, — or did I dream? 
No! 'tis the gallop of a horse at speed. 

VAN DEN BOSCH {idtkout). 

What ho! Van Artevclde! 

ARTEVELDE. 

Who calls? 
VAN DEN BOSCH (entering). 

"Pis I. 
Thou art an early riser, like myself; 
Or is it that thou hast not been to bed? 

ARTEVELDE. 

What are thy tidings? 

VAN DEN BOSCH. 

Nay, Avhat can they be? 
A page from pestilence and famine's da}'-book ; 
So many to the pest-house carried in, 
So many to the dead-house carried out. 
The same dull, dismal, damnable old story. 

ARTEVELDE. 

Be quiet ; listen to the westerly wind. 
And tell me if it bring thee nothing new. 

VAN DEN BOSCH. 

Nought to my ear, save howl of hungry dog 
That hears the house is stirring — nothing else. 

ARTEVELDE. 

No, — now — I hear it not myself — no — nothing. 
The city's hum is up — but ere you came 
'Twas audible enough. 

390 



TAYLOR. 
VAN DEN BOSCH. 

Ill God's name what ? 

ARTEVELDE. 

A horseman's tramp upon the road from Bruges. 

VAN DEN BOSCH. 

Why, then, be certain 'tis a flag of truce ! 

If once he reach the city we are lost. 

Nay, if he be but seen, our danger's great. 

^Aliat terms so bad they would not swallow now? 

Let's send some trusty varlets forth at once 

To cross his way. 

ARTEVELDE. 

And send him back to Bruges'? 

VAN DEN BOSCH. 

Send him to hell — and that's a better place. 

ARTEVELDE. 

Nay, softly, Van den Bosch ; let war be war, 
But let us keep its ordinances. 

VAN DEN BOSCH. 

Tush ! 
I say, but let them see him from afhr, 
And in an hour shall we, bound hand and foot, 
Be on our way to Bruges. 

ARTEVELDE. 

Not so, not so ; 
M}' rule of governance has not been such 
As e'er to issue in so foul a close. 

VAN DEN BOSCH. 

AVhat matter by what rule thou may'st have govern'd '? 
Think'st thou a hundred thousand citizens 
Shall stay the fury of their empty maws 
Because thou'st ruled them justly? 

ARTEVELDE. 

It may be 
That such a hope is mine. 
391 




VAN DEN BOSCH. 

Then thou art mad, 
And I must take this matter on myself. [Zs gouirf. 

ARTEVELDE. 

Hold, Van den Bosch ; I say this shidl not be. 
392 



TAYLOE. 

I must be madder than I think I am 
Ere I shall yield up my authority, 
Which I abuse not, to be used by thee. 

VAN DEN BOSCH. 

This comes of lifting dreamers into power. 
I tell thee, in this strait and stress of famino. 
The people, but to pave the way for peace, 
Would instantly despatch our heads to Bruges. 
Once and again I warn thee that thy life 
Hangs by a thread. 

ARTEVELDE. 

Why, know I not it does? 
What hath it hung by else since Utas' eve? 
Did I not by mine own advised choice 
Place it in jeopardy for certain ends? 
And what were these ? To prop thy tottering state ? 
To float thee o'er a reef, and, that performed, 
To cater for our joint security"? 
No, verily ; not such my high ambition. 
I bent my thoughts on yonder city's weal ; 
I looked to give it victory and freedom; 
And working to that end, by consequence 
From one great peril did deliver thee — 
Not for the love of thee or of thy life. 
Which I regard not, but the city's service ; 
And if for that same ser\'ice it seem good, 
I will expose thy life to equal hazard. 

VAN DEN BOSCH. 

Thou wilt? 

ARTEVELDE. 
I will. 
VAN DEN BOSCH. 

Oh, Lord ! to hear him speak, 
Wliat a most mighty emperor of puppets 
Is this that I have brought upon the board ! 
But how if he that made it should unmake? 
393 



ARTEVELDE IN GHENT. 



AKTEVELDE. 



Unto His sovereignty Avho truly made me 

With infinite humility I bow ! 

Botli, both of us are puppets, Yan den Bosch ; 

Part of the curious clock-work of this world, 

We scold, and squeak, and crack each other's crowns ; 

And if by twitches moved from wires we see not, 

I wei'e to toss thee from this steeple's top, 

I should be but the instrument — no more — 

The tool of that chastising Providence 

AVhich doth exalt the lowly, and abase 

The violent and proud : but let me hope 

There's no such task appointed me to-day. 

Tliou passest in the world for Avorldly wise : 

Then, seeing we must sink or swim together, 

Wliat can it profit thee, in this extreme 

Of our distress, to wrangle with me thus 

For my supi'emacy and rule? Thy fate. 

As of necessity bound up with mine, 

Must needs partake my cares : let that suffice 

To put thy pride to rest till better times. 

Contest — more reasonably wrong — a prize 

More precious than the ordering of a ship-\va'eck. 

VAN DEN BOSCn. 

Tush, tush. Van Artevelde ; thou talk'st and talk'st, 
And honest burghers think it wondrous fine. 
But thou might' st easilier with that tongue of thine 
Persuade yon smoke to fly i' tli' face o' the A\ind, 
Than talk away my wit and understanding. 
I say yon herald shall not enter here. 

ARTEVELDE. 

I know, sir, no man better, where my talk 
Is serviceable singly, where it needs 
To be by acts enforced. I say, beware. 
And brave not mine authority too far. 
39t 



TAYLOR. 
VAN DEN BOSCH. 

Hast tliou authority to take my life ? 
What is it else to let yon herald in 
To bargain for our blood? 

ARTEVELDE. 

Thy life again ! 
"Why, what a very slave* of life art thou ! 
Look round about on this once populous town ; 
Not one of these innumerous house-tops 
But hides some specti'al form of miseiy. 
Some peevish, pining child and moaning mother. 
Some aged man that in his dotage scolds, 
Not knowing Avhy he hungers, some cold corse 
That lies unstraightened where the spirit left 11. 
Look round, and answer what thy life can be 
To tell for more than dust upon the balance. 
I, too, would live — I have a love for life — 
But rather than to live to charge my soul 
With one hour's lengthening out of woes like these, 
I'd leap this parapet with as free a bound 
As e'er was schoolboy's o'er a garden wall. 

VAN DEN BOSCH. 

I'd like to see thee do it. 

ARTEVELDE. 

I know thou wouldst ; 
But for the present be content to see 
My less precipitate descent ; for lo ! 
There comes the herald o'er the hill. 

lExit. 

VAN DEN BOSCH. 

Beshrew thee! 
Thou shalt not have the start of me in this. 

[//e follows, ami t/ic scene closes. 



895 



ERNESTO. 



ERNESTO. 



Thoughtfully by the side Ernesto sate 

Of her whom, in his earlier youth, "vvith heart 

Then first exuhing in a dangerous hope. 

Dearer for danger, he had rashly loved. 

That was a season when the untravell'd spirit. 

Not way-worn nor way-wearied, nor with soil 

Nor stain upon it, lions in its path 

Saw none — or seeing, with triumphant trust 

In its resources and its powers, defied — 

Perverse to find provocatives in warnings, 

And in disturbance taking deep delight. 

By sea or land he still saw rise the storm 

With a gay courage, and through broken lights, 

Tempestuously exalted, for a while 

His heart ran mountains high, or to the roar 

Of shatter'd forests sang superior songs 

With kindling, and what might have seem'd to some. 

Auspicious energy ; — by land and sea 

He was way-founder'd — trampled in the dust 

His many-colour'd hopes — his lading rich 

Of precious pictures, bright imaginations, 

In absolute shipwreck to the wind and waves 

Suddenly render' d — 

By her side he sate : 
But time had been between and wov'n a veil 
Of seven years' separation ; and the past 
Was seen with soften'd outlines, like the face 
Of Nature through a mist. AVhat was so seen ? 
In a short hour, there sitting with his eyes 
Fix'd on her face, observant though abstracted, 
39G 



TAYLOR. 

Lost partly in the past, but mixing still 
With his remembrances the life before him, 
He traced it all — the pleasant first accost, 
Agreeable acquaintance, growing friendship, 
Love, passion at the culminating point 
When in a sleeping body through the night 
The heart would lie awake, reverses next 
Gnawing the mind w^ith doubtfulness, and last 
The affectionate bitterness of love refused. 
— Eash had he been by choice — by wanton choice 
Deliberately rash ; but in the soil 
^Vhere grows the bane, grows too the antidote ; 
The same young-heartedness which knew not fear 
Eenounced despondency, and brought at need 
With its results, resources. In his day 
Of utter condemnation, there remain'd 
Appeal to that imaginative power 
Which can commute a sentence of sore pain 
For one of softer sadness, which can bathe 
The broken spirit in the balm of tears. 
And more and better to after days ; for soon 
Upsprang the mind within him, and he knew 
The affluence and the growth which nature yields 
After an overflow of loving grief. 
Hence did he deem that he could freely draw 
A natural iudcmnity. The tree 
Sucks kindlier nurtui'e from a soil enrich'd 
By its own fallen leaves ; and man is made 
In heart and spirit from deciduous hopes 
And things that seem to perish. Thro' the stress 
And fever of his suit, from first to last, 
His pride (to call it by no nobler name) 
Had been to love with reason and with truth, 
To carry clear thro' many a turbulent trial 
A perspicacious judgment and true tongue, 
And neither with fair word nor partial thought 
To flatter whom he loved. If pride it Avas 
397 



ERNESTO. 

To love and not to fl.atter, by a breath 

Of purer aspiration was he moved 

To suffer and not blame, grieve, not resent ; 

And when all hopes that needs must knit with sell" 

Their object, were irrevocably gone, 

Cherish a mild commemorative love, 

Such as a mourner might unblamed bestow 

On a departed spirit — 

Once again 
He sate beside her — for the last time now. 
And scarcely was she alter'd ; for the liour.s 
Had led her lightly down the vale of life, 
Dancing and scattering roses, and her face 
Seem'd a perpetual daybreak, and the woods. 
Where'er she rambled, echoed through their aisles 
The music of a laugh so softly gay 
That spring with all her songsters and her songs 
Knew nothing like it. But how changed Avas he ! 
Care and disease and ardours unrepress'd, 
And labours unremitted, and much grief, 
Had written their death-warrant on his brow. 
Of this she saw not all — she saw but little — 
That which she could not choose but see she saw ; 
And o'er her sunlit dimples and her smiles 
A shadow fell — a transitory shade ; 
And when the phantom of a hand she clasped 
At parting scarce responded to her touch. 
She sigh'd — but hoped the best. 

When Avinter came 
She sigh'd again ; — for with it came the word 
That trouble and love had found their place of rest 
And slept beneath Madeira's orange groves. 



398 



MOIR. 



CASA WAPPY." . 

And hast tliou sought thy heavenly home. 

Our fond, dear boy — 
The reahns where sorrow dare not comu, 

Where life is joy? 
Pure at thy death as at thy birth, 
Thy spirit caught no taint from earth ; 
Even by its bliss we mete our death, 

Casa Wappy! 

Despair was in our last farewell, 

As closed thine eye ; 
Tears of our anguish may not tell 

When thou didst die ; 
Words may not paint our gi-ief for thee, 
Sighs are but bubbles on the sea 
Of onr unfathomed agony, 

Casa Wappy! 

Thou wert a vision of delight 

To bless us given ; 
Beauty embodied to our sight, 

A type of heaven : 
So dear to us thou wert, thou art 
Even less thine own self than a part 
Of mine and of thy mother's heart, 

Casa Wappy ! 

* Casa Wappy was the self-conferred pet-name of an infant son of the poet, 
snatched away after a verj' brief illness. 

399 



CASA wAi^py. 

Thy bright brief day knew no decline, 

'Twas cloudless joy ; 
Sunrise and night alone were thine 

Beloved boy! 
This morn beheld thee blithe and gay, 
That found thee prostrate in decay, 
And ere a third shone, clay was clay, 

Casa Wappy! 

Gem of our hearth, our household pride, 

Earth's undefded ; 
Could love have saved, thou hadst not died, 

Our dear, sweet child ! 
Humbly we bow to Fate's decree ; 
Yet had we hoped that Time should see 
Thee mourn for us, not us for thee, 

Casa Wappy! 

Do what I may, go where I Avill, 

Thou meet'st my sight ; 
There dost thou glide before me still — • 

A form of light ! 
I feel thy breath upon my cheek — 
I see thee smile, I hear thee speak — 
Till oh ! my heart is like to break, 

Casa Wapp} ! 

Methinks thou smil'st before me now, 

With glance of stealth ; 
The hair thrown back from thy full brow 

In buoyant health : 
I see thine eye's deep violet light, 
Thy dimpled cheek carnationed bright. 
Thy clasping arms so round and white, 

Casa Wappy ! 
400 



MOIR. 

The nursery shows thy pictured wall, 

Thy bat, thy bow. 
Thy cloak and bonnet, club and ball ; 

But where art thou? 
A corner holds thine empty chair, 
Thy playthings idly scattered there, 
l>ut speak to us of our despair, 

Casa Wappy! 

Even to the last thy every word — 

To glad, to grieve — 
Was sweet as sweetest song of bird 

On summer's eve ; 
In outward beauty undecayed, 
Death o'er thy spirit cast no shade, 
And like the rainbow thou didst fade, 

Casa Wappy! 

We mourn for thee when blind blank night 

The chamber fills ; 
We pine for thee when morn's first light 

Eeddens the hills : 
The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea, 
All, to the wall-flower and Avild pea. 
Arc changed — we saw the world through thee, 

Casa Wappy ! 

And though, perchance, a smile may gleam 

Of casual mirth, 
It doth not own, whate'er may seem, 

An inward birth : 
We miss thy small step on the stair; 
We miss thee at thine evening prayer! 
All day we miss thee, everywhere, 

Casa Wappy! 
401 c 



CASA WAPPY. 

Snows muffled earth when thou didst go. 

In life's spring bloom, 
Down to the appointed house below, 

The silent tomb. 
But now the green leaves of the tree. 
The cuckoo and " the busy bee" 
Return — but with them bring not thee, 

Casa Wappy 1 

'Tis so ; but can it be (while flowers 

Revive again) 
Man's doom, in death that we and ours 

For aye remain ? 
Oh ! can it be, that o'er the grave 
The grass renewed, should yearly wave. 
Yet God forget our child to save? — 

Casa Wappy ! 

It cannot be : for were it so 

Thus man could die, 
Life were a mockery. Thought were woe. 

And Truth a lie ; 
Heaven were a coinage of the brain. 
Religion frenzy, Virtue vain, 
And all our hopes ta meet again, 

Casa Wappy ! 

Then be to us, O dear, lost child ! 

With beam oi" love, 
A star, death's uncongenial wild 

Smiling above ; 
Soon, soon thy little feet have trod 
The skyward path, the seraph's road. 
That led thee back from man to God, 

Casa Wappy ! 
402 



MOIR. 

Yet 'tis sweet balm to our despair. 

Fond, fairest boy, 
That heaven is God's, and thou art there. 

With him in joy : 
There past are death and all its woes. 
There beauty's stream forever flows. 
And pleasure's day no sunset knows, 

Casa Wappy ! 

Farewell, then — for a while, farewell — 

Pride of my heart ! 
It cannot be that long we dwell. 

Thus torn apart : 
Time's shadows like the shuttle flee : 
And, dark howe'er life's night may be, 
Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee, 

Casa Wappy I 



403 




TRENCH. 
THE SPILT PEARLS. 

His courtiers of the Caliph crave, — 
" Oh, say how this may be, 

That of thy slaves, this Ethiop slave 
Is best beloved by thee?* 

'' For he is ugly as the Night ; 

But when has ever chose 
A nightingale, for its delight. 

A hueless, scentless rose?" 

The Caliph, then: — "No features fair. 

Nor comely mien, are his ; 
Love is the beauty he doth wear, 

And Love his glory is. 



"When once a camel of my train 
There fell in narrow street. 

From broken casket roll'd amain 
Ricli pearls before my feet. 
404 



TRENCH. 

" I winking to the slaves that I 
Would freely give them these, 

At once upon the spoil they fly, 
The costly boon to seize. 

"One only at my side remained — 

Beside this Ethiop none: 
He, moveless as the steed he reined. 

Behind me sat alone. 

" ' What \\'ill thy gain, good fellow, be, 
Thus lingering at my side?' 

'My king, that I shall faithfully 
Have guarded thee,' he cried. 

" True servant's title he may wear 

He only who has not. 
For his Lord's gifts, how rich soe'er. 

His Lord himself forgot." 

So thou alone dost walk before 
Thy God with perfect aim. 

From Him desiring nothing more 
Beside Himself to claim. 

For if thou not to Him aspire. 

But to His gifts alone. 
Not Love, but covetous desire, 

Has brought thee to His throne. 

VVTiile such thy prayer, it climbs above 

In vain — the golden key 
Of God's rich treasure-house of love. 

Thine own will never be 



40.5 



EMEESON. 
THE HUMBLE-BEE. 

Burly, dozing, humble-bee, 
Wliere thou art is clime for me. 
Let them sail for Porto Rique, 
Far-off heats through seas to seek ; 
I will follow thee alone, 
Thou animated torrid zone ! 
Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer, 
Let me chase thy waving lines ; 
Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, 
Singing over shrubs and vines- 
Insect lover of the sun, 
Joy of thy dominion ! 
Sailor of the atmosphere ; 
Swimmer through the Avaves of air ; 
Voyager of light and noon ; 
Epicurean of June ; 
Wait, I prithee, till I come 
Within earshot of thy lunii, — 
All without is martyrdom. 

When the south wind, in May days, 
With a net of shining haze 
Silvers the horizon wall, 
And, with softness touching all, 
Tints the human countenance 
With a colour of romance, 
And, infusing subtle heats, 
Turns the sod to violets, 
Thou, in sunny solitudes. 
Rover of the underwoods, 
400 



EMERSON. 

The green silence dost displace 
With thy mellow, breezy bass. 

Hot midsummer's petted crone, 
Sweet to me thy drowsy tone 
Tells of countless sunny hours, 
Long days, and solid banks of flowers ; 
Of gulfs of sweetness without bound 
In Indian Avildernesses found; 
Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, 
Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure. 

Aught unsavoury or unclean 
Hath my insect never seen ; 
But violets and bilberry bells. 
Maple-sap, and daffodels. 
Grass with green flag half-mast high, 
Succory to match the sky, 
Columbine with horn of honey, 
Scented fern and agrimony. 
Clover, catch-fly, adder' s-tongue. 
And brier roses, dwelt among; 
All beside was unknown waste, 
All was picture as he passed. 

Wiser far than human seer, 
Yellow-breeched philosopher ! 
Seeing only what is fair, 
Sipping only what is sweet, 
Thou dost mock at fate and care, 
Leave the chaff, and take the wheat. 
When the fierce north-western blast 
Cools sea and land so far and fast. 
Thou already slumberest deep; 
Woe and want thou canst outslecp; 
Want and woe, which torture us. 
Thy sleep makes ridiculous. 
407 



HOFFJiIANN. 

SPARKLING AND BRIGHT. 

Sparkling and briglit in liquid light. 

Does the wine our goblets gleam in. 
With hue as red as the rosy bed 

Which a bee would choose to dream in. 
Then fill to-night with hearts as light, 

To loves as gay and fleeting 
As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim. 
And break on the lips while meeting. 

Oh ! if Mirth might arrest the flight 
Of Time through Life's dominions, 
We here awhile Avould now beguUe 
The grey-beard of his pinions 

To drink to-night with hearts as light. 

To loves as gay and fleeting 
As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim, 
And break on the lips Avhile meetuig. 

But smce delight can't tempt the wight, 

Nor fond regret delay him, 
Nor Love himself can hold the elf, 
Nor sober Friendship stay him, 

We!ll drink to-night with hearts as light. 

To loves as gay and fleeting 
As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim. 
And break on the lips while meeting. 



408 



MORRIS. 

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. 

Woodman, spare that tree ! 

Touch not a shigle bough ! 
In youth it sheltered nie, 

And I'll protect it now. 
'Twas my forefather's hand 

That placed it near his cot; 
There, woodman, let it stand, 

Thy axe shall harm it not ! 

That old familiar tree, 

Whose glory and renown 
Ai'e spread o'er land and sea. 

And wouldst thou hew it down ? 
Woodman, forbear thy stroke ! 

Cut not its earth-bound ties ; 
Oh, spare that aged oak. 

Now towering to the skies ! 

When but an idle boy 

I sought its grateful shade ; 
In all their gushing joy 

Here too my sisters played. 
My mother kissed me here ; 

My father pressed my hand — 
Forgive this foolish tear. 

But let that old oak stand ! 

My heart-strings round thee cling, 
Close as thy bark, old friend! 

Here shall the wild-bird sing, 
And still thy branches bend. 
409 



POETKY. 

Old tree ! the storm still brave ! 

And woodman, leave the spot ; 
While I've a hand to save, 

Thy axe shall harm it not. 



POETRY. 



To me the world's an open book, 

Of sweet and pleasant poetry ; 
r read it in the running brook 

That sings its way towards the sea. 
It whispers in the leaves of trees, 

The swelling gi'ain, the Avaving grass. 
And in the cool, fresh evening breeze 

That crisps the wavelets as they pass. 

The flowers below, the stars above, 

In all their bloom and brightness given, 
Are, like the attributes of love. 

The poetry of earth and heaven. 
Thus Nature's volume, read aright, 

Attunes the soul to minstrelsy, 
Tinging life's clouds with rosy light, 

And all the world with poetry. 



410 




HOYT. 



SNOW— A WINTER SKETCH 



The blessed morn has come again ; 

The early gray 
Taps at the slumberer's window pane, 

And seems to say 
Break, break from the enchanter's chain. 

Away, away! 

411 



SNOW— A WINTER SKETCH. 

'Tis winter, yet there is no sound 

Along the air, 
Of winds upon their battle-ground, 

But gently there, 
The snow is falling, — all around 

How fair — how fair ! 



The jocund fields would masquerade : 

Fantastic scene ! 
Tree, shrub, and laA\'n, and lonely glade 

Have cast their green, 
And joined the revel, all arrayed 

So white and clean. 



E'en the old posts, that hold the bars 

And the old gate. 
Forgetful of their wintry wars, 

And age sedate, 
High capped, and plumed, like white hussar^ 

Stand there in state. 



The drifts are hanging by the sill. 

The eaves, the door ; 
The hay-stack has become a hill ; 

All covered o'er 
The waggon, loaded for the mill 

The eve before. 



Maria brings the water-pail. 

But where' s the well ! 
Like magic of a fairy tale. 

Most strange to tell. 
All vanished, curb, and crank, and rail 

How deep it fell ! 



HOYT. 

The wood-pile, too, is playing hide ; 

The axe, the log, 
The kennel of that friend so tried, 

(The old watch-dog,) 
The grindstone standing by its side, 

All now incog. 



The bustling cock looks out aghasl 

From his high shed ; 
No spot to scratch him a repast 

Up curves his head. 
Starts the dull hamlet with a blast, 

And back to bed. 



Old drowsy dobbin, at the call, 

Amazed, awakes ; 
Out from the window of his stall 

A \dew he takes ; 
WhUe thick and faster seem to fall 

The silent flakes. 



The barn -yard gentry, musing, chime 

Their morning moan ; 
Like Memnon's music of old time 

That voice of stone ! 
So marbled they — and so sublime 

Their solemn tone. 



Good Ruth has called the younker folk 

To dress below ; 
F'uU welcome was the word she spoke, 

Down, down they go. 
The cottage quietude is broke, — 

The snow ! — the snow ! 
413 



SNOW— A WINTER SKETCH. 

Now rises from around the fire 

A pleasant strain ; 
Ye giddy sons of mirth, retire! 

And ye profane ! 
A hymn to the Eternal Sire 

Goes up again. 

The patriarchal Book divine. 

Upon the knee, 
Opes where the gems of Judah shine, 

(Sweet minstrelsie !) 
How soars each heart with each fair line, 

Oh God, to Thee ! 



Around the altar low they Itend, 

Devout in prayer ; 
As snows upon the roof descend. 

So angels there 
Come down that household to defend 

"With gentle care. 



Now sings the kettle o'ei- tlie blaze ; 

The buckwheat heaps ; 
Rare Mocha, worth an Arab's y)raise. 

Sweet Susan steeps ; 
The old round stand her nod obeys. 

And out it leaps. 



Unerring presages declare 

The banquet near ; 
Soon busy appetites are there ; 

And disappear 
The glories of the ample fare. 

With thanks sincere. 
414 



HOYT. 

Now tiny snow-birds venture nigh 

From copse and spray, 
(Sweet strangers ! with the winter's sky 

To pass away ;) 
And gather crumbs in lull supply. 

For all the day. 



Let now the busy hours begin : 

Out rolls the churn ; 
Forth hastes the fa-rm-boy, and brings in 

The brush to burn ; 
Sweep, shovel, scour, sew, knit, and spin. 

'Till niojht's return. 



To delve his threshing -John must hie ; 

His sturdy shoe 
Can all the subtle damp defy ; 

How Avades he througli ! 
While dainty milkmaids slow and shy. 

His track pursue. 

Each to the hour's allotted caro ; 

To shell the corn ; 
The broken harness to repair : 

The sleigh t' adorn ; 
As cheerful, tranquil, frosty, fair. 

Speeds on the morn. 



While mounts the eddying smoke amain 

From many a hearth. 
And all the landscape rings again 

With rustic mirth ; 
So gladsome seems to every swain 

The snowy earth. 

4ir, 




SIMMS. 



BLESSINGS ON CHILDREN. 



Blessings on the blessing children, sweetest gifts of Heaven to earth, 
Filling all the heart with gladness, filling all the house with mirth ; 
Bringing with them native sweetness, pictures of the primal bloom 
Wliich the bliss for ever gladdens, of the region whence they come ; 
Bringing with them joyous impulse of a state withouten care, 
And a buoyant faith in being, which makes all in nature fair ; 
Not a doubt to dim the distance, not a grief to vex the nigh, 
And a hopp that in existence, finds each hour a luxury ; 

416 



SIMMS. 

iioiiig singing, bounding, brightening — never fearing as they go, 
That the innocent shall tremble, and the loving tind a foe ; 
In the daylight, in the starlight, still with thought that freely Hies, 
Prompt and joyous, Avith no question of the beauty in the skies ; 
Genial fancies -winning raptures, as the bee still sucks her store. 
All the present still a garden glean'd a thousand times before ; 
All the future, but a region, Avhere the happy serving thought. 
Still depicts a thousand blessings, by the winged hunter caught ; 
Life a chase where blushing pleasures only seem to strive in flight, 
Lingering to be caught, and yielding gladly to the proud delight ; 
As the maiden, through the alleys, looking backward as she flies, 
Woos the fond pursuer onward, with the love-light in her eyes. 
Oh ! the happy life in children, still restoring joy to ours, 
Making for the forest music, planting for the wayside flowers ; 
Back recalling all the sweetness, in a pleasure pure as rare. 
Back the past of hope and rapture bringing to the heart of care. 
How, as swell the happy voices, bursting through the shady grove. 
Memories take the place of sorrows, time restores the sway to love ! 
We are in the shouting comrades, shaking oflT the load of years, 
Thought forgetting, strifes and trials, doubts and agonies and tears ; 
We are in the bomiding urchin, as o'er hill and plain he darts, 
Share the struggle and the triumph, gladdening in his heart of hearts 
What an image of the vigour and the glorious grace we kncA^', 
When to eager youth from boyhood, at a single bound yve gre^^• ! 
Even such our slender beauty, such upon our cheek the glow. 
In our eyes the life and gladness — of our blood the overflow. 
Bless the mother of the uirhin ! in his form we see her truth : 
He is now the very picture of the memories in our youth ; 
Never can we doubt the forehead, nor the sunny flowing hair, 
Nor the smiling in the dimple speaking chin and cheek so fair : 
Bless the mother of the young one! he hath blended in his gi-ace, 
All the hope and joy and beauty, kindlnig once in either fiice ! 

Oh ! the happy faith of children ! that is glad in all it sees, 
And with never need of thinking, piei'ces still its mysteries ; 
In simplicity profoundest, in their soul abundance blest, 
Wi*e in value of the sportive, and in restlessness at rest; 

417 1)1) 



BLESSINGS ON CHILDREN. 

Ijacking every creed yet having faith so large in all they see. 
That to know is still to gladden, and 'tis rapture but to be. 
^Vhat trim fancies bring them flowers ; what rare spirits walk their wood. 
What a wondrous world the moonlight harbours of the gay and good I 
Unto them the very tempest walks in glories grateful still, 
And the lightning gleams, a seraph, to persuade them to the hill : 
'Tis a sweet and loving spirit, that throughout the midnight rains, 
Broods beside the shutter'd windows, and with gentle love complains ; 
And how wooing, how exalting, with the richness of her dyes, 
Spans the painter of the rainbow, her bright arch along the skies, 
With a dream like Jacob's ladder, showing to the fancy's sight, 
How 'twere easy for the sad one to escape to worlds of light ! 
Ah ! the wisdom of such fancies, and the truth in every dream. 
That to faith confiding offers, cheering every gloom, a gleam ! 
Happy hearts, still cherish fondly each delusion of your youth. 
•Tov is bom of well believing, and the fiction ^\Taps the truth. 



418 



WILLIS. 



UNSEEN SPIRITS. 

The shadows lay along Broadway — 

'Twas near the twilight-tide — 
And slowly there a lady fair 

Was walking in her pride. 
Alone walked she ; but, viewlessly, 

Walked spirits at her side. 

Peace charmed the street beneath her feet. 
And Honour charmed the air ; 

And all astir looked kind on her, 
And called her good as fair — 

For all God ever gave to her 
She kept with chary care. 

She kept with cai*c her beauties rare 

From lovers warm and true — 
For her heart was cold to all but gold, 

And the rich came not to woo — 
But honoured Avell are charms to sell 

If priests the selling do. 

Now walking there was one more fair — 

A slight girl, lily-pale ; 
And she had unseen company 

To make the spirit quail — 
'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn. 

And nothing could avail. 
419 



LITTLE FLORENCE GRAY. 

No mercy now can clear her brow 
For this world's peace to pray ; 

For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air. 
Her Avoman's heart gave way ! — 

But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven 
P)y man is curst ahvay ! 



LITTLE FLORENCE GRAY 



I WAS in Greece. It was the hour of noon, 
And the ^gean wind had dropped asleej) 
Upon HjTiiettus, and the thymy isles 
Of Salamis and -^gina lay hung 
Like clouds upon the bright and breathless sea. 
I had climbed np th' Acropolis at morn. 
And hours had fled as time will in a dream 
Amid its deathless ruins — for the air 
Is full of spirits in these mighty fanes, 
And they walk Avith you ! As it sultrier grew, 
I laid me doAvn Avithin a shadow deep 
Of a tall column of the Parthenon, 
And in an absent idleness of thought 
T scrawled upon the smooth and maible base. 
Tell me, O memoiy, Avhat Avrote I there? 
The name of a siceet cJnld I knew at Home ! 

I was in Asia. 'Twas a peerless night 
I'pon the plains of Sardis, and the moon, 
Touching my eyelids through the wind-stiri'cd tent, 
Had witched me from my slumber. I arose, 
And -ilently stole forth, and by the brink 
420 



WILLIS. 

Of golden "Pactolus," where bathe his waters 
The bases of Cybele's columns fair, 
1 paced away the hours. In Avakeful mood 
I mused upon the storied past awhile, 
Watching the moon, that Avith the same mild eye 
Had looked upon the mighty Lybian kings 
Sleeping around me — Croesus, who had heaped 
Within the mouldering portico his gold, 
And Gyges, buried with his viewless ring 
Beneath yon swelling tumulus — and then 
I loitered up the valley to a small 
And humbler ruin, where the undefiled* 
Of the Apocalypse their garments kept 
Spotless ; and crossing with a conscious awe 
The broken threshold, to my spirit's eye 
It seemed as if, amid the moonlight, stood 
"The angel of the church of Sardis" still! 
And I again passed onward, and as dawn 
Paled the bright morning star, I lay me down, 
Weary and sad, beside the river's brink, 
And 'twixt the moonlight and the rosy morn, 
Wrote -with my fingers in the golden "sands." 
Tell me, O memory! Avhat wrote I there? 
The name of the sweet child I hieio at Rome .' 

The dust is old upon my " sandal-shoon," 
And still I am a pilgrim ; I have roved 
From wild America to spicy Ind, 
And worshipped at innumerable shrines 
Of beauty, and the painter's art, to me, 
And sculpture, speak as with a living tongue, 
And of dead kingdoms, I recall the soul, 
Sitting amid their ruins. I have stored 



* " Thou hast a few names even in Sai'dis which liave not defiled tlieir gar- 
ments; and tliey shall walk with me in white; for they are worthy." — liv.x . 
iii. 4. 

421 



LITTLE FLOKENCE GRAY. 

My memory with thoughts that can allay 
Fever and sadness ; and when life gets dim, 
And I am overladen in my years, 
Minister to me. But when wearily 
The mind gives over toiling, and, with eyes 
Open but seeing not, and senses all 
Lying awake within their chambers fine. 
Thought settles like a fountain, clear and calm- 
Far in its sleeping depths, as 'twere a gem. 
Tell me, O memory ! what shines so fair ? 
The face of the siveet child I knew at Rome ! 



422 



ALFOKD. 

HYMN TO THE SEA. 

Who shall declare the secret of thy birth, 
Thou old companion of the circling earth? 
And having marked with keen poetic sight 

Ere beast or happy bird 

Through the vast silence stirred, 
Koll back the folded darkness of the primal night "? 

Corruption-like, thou teemedst in the graves 
Of mouldering systems, AN'itli dark weltering waves 
Troubling the peace of the first mother's womb ; 

AVhose ancient awful form, 

With inly tossing storm, 
Unquiet heavings kept — a birth-place and a tomb. 

Till the life-giving Spirit moved above 
The face of the waters, with creative love 
Warming the hidden seeds of infant li<rht : 

What time the mighty Word 

Through thine abyss was heard. 
And swam from out thy deeps the young day heavenly briglil. 

Thou and the earth, twin-sisters, as they say, 
In the old prime were fashioned in the day, 
And therefore thou delightest evermore 

With her to He, and play 

The summer hours away. 
Curling thy loving ripples up her quiet shore. 

She is married, a matron long ago, 

With nations at her side ; her milk doth flow 

423 




^i 



Each year ; but tliec no liusband dares to tame ; 
Thy wild Avill is thine own, 
Thy sole and virgin throne — 
Thy mood is ever changing — thy resolve the same. 



Sunlight and moonlight minister to thee ; — 
O'er the broad circle of the shoreless sea 

Heaven's two great lights for ever set and rise; 
While the round vault above, 
In vast and silent love, 
Is gazing down upon thee with his hundred eyes. 
124 



ALFORD. 

AH night thou utterest forth thy solemn moan, 
Counting thy Aveary minutes all alone ; 

Then in the morning thou dost calmly lie, 

• Deep blue, ere yet the sun 
His day-work hath begun, 
Under the opening windows of the golden sky. 

The spirit of the mountain looks on thee 
Over an hundred hills ; quaint shadows flee 
Across thy marbled mirror ; brooding lie 
Storm-mists of infant cloud. 
With a sight-baffling shroud 
Mantling the grey-blue islands in the western sky. 

Sometimes thou liftest up thine hands on high 
Into the tempest-cloud that blurs the sky, 
Holding rough dalliance with the fitful blast, 

Whose stiff breath, whistling shrill, 

Pierces with deadly chill 
The wet crew feebly clinging to their shattered mast. 

Foam-white along the border of the shore 
Thine onward-leaping billows plunge and roar ; 
Wliile o'er the pebbly ridges slowly glide 

Cloaked figures, dim and grey. 

Through the thick mist of spray, 
Watching for some struck vessel in the boiling tide. 

Daughter and darling of remotest eld — 
Time's childhood and Time's age thou hast beheld ; 
His arm is feeble and his eye is dim — 

He tells old tales again — 

lie wearies of long pain ; — 
Thou art as at the first: thou joui'neyedst not with him. 



425 



THACKEEAY. 
THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE. 

A STREET there is in Paris famous, 

For which no rhyme our language yields, 
Eue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is — 

The New Street of the Little Fields ; 
And here's an inn, not rich and splendid, 

But still in comfortable case ; 
The which in youth I oft attended, 

To eat a bowl of BouUlabaisse. 



This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is — 

A sort of soup, or broth, or brew. 
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes. 

That Greenwich never could outdo ; 
Green herbs, red peppers, muscles, safFern, 

Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace ; 
All these you eat at Terke's tavern, 

In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. 



Lideed, a rich and savoury stew 'tis ; 

And true philosophers, methinks, 
Who love all sorts of natural beauties, 

Should love good victuals and good drinks. 
And Cordelier or Benedictine 

Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, 
Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, 

Wliifh served him up a Bouillabaisse. 
426 



THACKERAY. 

I wonder if the house still there is ? 

Yes, here the lamp is, as before ; 
The smiling, red-cheeked ecaillere is 

Still opening oysters at the door. 
Is Tekre still alive and able? 

I recollect his droll grimace ; 
He'd come and smUe before your table, 

And hoped you liked your Bouillabaisse. 

We enter ; nothing's changed or older. 

"How's Monsieur Terke, waiter, pray?" 
The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder ; — 

" Monsieur is dead this many a day." 
" It is the lot of saint and sinner. 

So honest Terre's run his race V 
"What Avill Monsieur require for dinner?" 

" Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse ?" 

" Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer ; 

"Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il ?" 
" Tell me a good one." " That I can, sir ; 

The Chambertin with yellow seal." 
" So Terre's gone," I say, and sink in 

My old accustomed corner-place ; 
" He's done with feasting and with drinking, 

With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse." 



My old accustomed corner here is. 

The table still is in the nook ; 
Ah ! vanished many a busy year is. 

This well-known chair since last I took 
"When first I saw ye, Cari hioghi, 

I'd scarce a beard upon my face, 
And now a grizzled, grim old fogy, 

I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. 
427 



THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE. 

AVhcre are you, old companions trusty 

Of early days, here met to dine 1 
Come, waiter ! quick, a flagon crusty — 

I'll pledge them in the good old wine. 
The kind old voices and old faces 

My memory can quick retrace ; 
Around the board they take their places, 

And share the wine and Bouillabaisse. 



There's Jack has made a AA'ondrous marriage 

There's laughing Tom is laughing yet ; 
There's brave Augustus drives his carriage ; 

There's poor old Fred in the Gazette ; 
On James's head the grass is growing : 

Good Lord ! The world has Avagged apace 
Since here we set the Claret fiomng, 

And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. 



Ah me ! how quick the days are flitting ! 

I mind me of a time that's gone. 
When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting, 

In this same place — but not alone. 
A fair young form was nestled near mc, 

A dear, dear face looked fondly up. 
And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer m(> 

— There's no one now to share my cuji. 

* * * :;^ * 

I drink it as the Fates ordain ii. 

Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes ; 
Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it 

In memory of dear old times. 
Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is ; 

And sit you down and say your grace 
AVith thankful heart, whate'er the meal is. 

— -Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse. 
i28 



THACKERAY. 



THE END OF THE PLAY. 

The play is clone ; the curtain drops, 

Slow falling to the prompter's bell : 
A moment yet the actor stop?, 

And looks around to say farewell. 
It is an irksome word and task ; 

And, when he's laughed and said his say, 
He shows, as he removes the mask, 

A face that's any thing but gay. 

One word, ere yet the evening ends. 

Let's close it with a parting rhyme, 
And pledge a hand to all young friends. 

As fits the merry Christmas time. 
On life's wide scene you, too, have parts. 

That Fate ere long shall bid you play ; 
Good-night! with honest gentle hearts 

A kindly greeting go alway! 

Good-night! — I'd say, the griefs, the joys. 

Just hinted in this mimic page. 
The triumphs and defeats of boys, 

Are but repeated in our age. 
I'd say, your woes were not less keen, 

Your hopes more vain than those of men 
Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen 

At forty-five played o'er again. 

I'd say we suffer and we strive. 

Not less nor more as men than boys ; 

With grizzled beards at forty-five. 
As erst at twelve in cordui'oys, 
429 



THE END OF THE PLAY. 

And if in time of sacred youth, 

We learned at home to love and pray, 

Pray Heaven that early Love and Truth 
May never wholly pass away. 

And in the world, as in the school, 

I'd say, how fate may change and shift : 
The prize be sometimes with the fool, 

The race not always to the swift. 
The strong may yield, the good may fiill. 

The great man be a vulgar clown,- 
The knave be lifted over all, 

The kind cast pitilessly down. 

Who knows the inscrutable design? 

Blessed be He who took and gave ! 
AVhy should your mother, Charles, not mine, 

Be weeping at her darling's grave ? 
We bow to Heaven that willed it so, 

That darkly rules the fate of all, 
That sends the respite or the blow, 

That's free to give or to recall. 

This crowns his feast with wine and Avit: 

Who brought him to that mirth and state? 
His betters, see, below him sit, 

Or hunger hopeless at the gate. 
Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel 

To spurn the rags of Lazarus? 
Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneel. 

Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus. 

So each shall mourn, in life's advance. 
Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed ; 

Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance. 
And longing passion unfulfilled. 
430 



THACKERAY. 

Amen! whatever fate be sent, 

Pray God the heart may kindly glow. 

Although the head with cares be bent, 
And whitened with the Avinter snow. 

Come wealth or want, come good or ill, 

Let young and old accept their part, 
And bow before the Awful Will, 

And bear it with an honest heart. 
Who misses, or who wins the prize? 

Go, lose or conquer as you can : 
But if you fail, or if you rise. 

Be each, pray God, a gentleman. 

A gentleman, or old or young ! 

(Bear kindly with my humble lays ;) 
The sacred chorus first was sung 

Upon the first of Christmas days: 
The shepherds heard it overhead — 

The joyful angels raised it then : 
Glory to Heaven on high, it said. 

And peace oil earth to gentle men. 
# 
My song, save this, is little worth ; 

I lay the weaiy pen aside, 
And wish you health, and love, and mirth 

As fits the solemn Christmas-tide, 
As fits the holy Christmas birth, 

Be this, good friends, our carol still — 
Be peace on earth, be peace on earth. 

To men of gentle will. 



431 




TENNYSON. 



THE MAY QUEEN. 



You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear ; 

To-morroAv 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year ; 

Oi' all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day ; 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the IVfay. 

There's many a black black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine ; 

There's Margaret and ISIary, there's Kate and Caroline : 

But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say, 

80 I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the IMay. 

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake. 
If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break : 
But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay. 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the INIay. 

4P)2 



TENNYSON. 

As I came up the valley, whom think ye should I see, 

But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree? 

He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday, — 

But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen 6' the May. 

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, 

And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of lioht. 

They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say, 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be : 

They say his heart is breaking, mother, — what is that to me? 

There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day. 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green. 

And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen ; 

For the shepherd-lads on every side 'ill come from far away. 

And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the lM:\y. 

The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers. 
And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers; 
And the Avild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray, 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

T'he night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass. 
And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass ; 
There will not be a drop of rain the Avhole of the live-long da)^. 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and gi-een and still. 

And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill. 

And the rivulet in the floM^ery dale 'ill merrily glance and play. 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother deai". 
To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year ; 
To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day. 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

433 E K 




KEAV-YEARS EVE. 



If you're waking call me early, call me early, mother dear, 

For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year: 

It is the last New-year that I shall ever see, 

Then you may lay me low i' the mould, and think no more of nu 

To-night I saw the sun set : he set and left behind 
'J'he good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind ; 
.Vnd the New-j'ear's coming up, mother, but I shall never see 
The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the ti'ee. 

Last May we made a crown of flowers ; we had a merry day : 
Beneath the hawthorn on the Green they made me Queen of jMay 
.\nd we danced about the May-pole and in the hazel copse. 
Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops. 

There's not a flower on all the hills : the frost is on the pane : 
I only Avish to live till the snowdrops come again : 
I wish the snow would melt, and the sun come out on high : 
I long to see a flower so before the day I die. 

The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elm-tree, 
And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea. 
And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the wave.- 
But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. 

434 



TENNYSON. 

Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine, 
In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine, 
Before the red cock crows from the barn upon the hill, 
When you are warm asleep, mother, and all the world is still. 

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light 
You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night ; 
When from the dry dark wold the summer airs bloAv cool 
On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool. 

You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the liawthorn shade, 
And }'ou'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. 
I shall not forget you, mother ; I shall hear you when you pass, 
^Vith your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. 

I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now; 
Y''ou'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow ; 
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild, 
You should not fret for me, mothei', — you have another child. 

If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place ; 
Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face ; 
Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say, 
And be often, often with you, when you think I'm far away. 

Good-night, good-night, when I ha^e said good-night for evermore, 
And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door ; 
Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green : 
She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been. 

She'll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor : 
Let her take 'em : they are hers : I shall never garden more : 
But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I set 
About the parlour-window and the box of mignonette. 

Good-night, sweet mother: call me before the day is born. 
All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn ; 
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year, 
So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. 

•t.3.-> 




CONCLUSION. 

1 thought to pass awaj' before, and yet alive I am ; 

And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb. 

How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year ! 

To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here. 

O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies, 
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me 'that cannot rise, 
And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow, 
And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. 

It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, 
And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done ! 
But still I think it can't be long before I find release; 
And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace. 

O blessings on his kindly voice, and on his silver hair! 
And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there ! 
blessings on his kindly heart, and on his silver head! 
A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. 

436 



TENNYSON. 

lie show' (I me all the inerey, for he taught me all the sin : 
Now, though my lamp Avas lighted late, there's One will let mo in 
Nor would I now be well; mother, again, if that could be. 
For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. 

1 did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat. 
There came a sweeter token when the iiioht and morning meet : 
But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine. 
And Eflfie on the other side, and' I will tell the sign. 

All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call ; 
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all ; 
The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll. 
And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. 

For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear ; 
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here ; 
With all my strength I prayed for both, and so I felt resign'd, 
And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. 

I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed, 
And then did something speak to me — I know not what was said ; 
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind. 
And uj) the valley came again the music on the wind. 

I>ut you were sleeping; and I said, "It's not for them: it's mine. 
And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. 
And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars, 
Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven, and die among the stars. 

So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know 
The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. 
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. 
But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am past away. 

And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret ; 
There's many worthier than I, would make him happy yet. 
If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been his wife ; 
Hnt all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. 

437. 



THE MAY QUEEN. 

() look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow; 

lie shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. 

And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine — 

>Vild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. 

< ) sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done 

The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun — 

For ever and for ever v^^ith those just souls and true — 

And what is life, that we should moan? why make Ave such ado? 

For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home — 

And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come ; 

To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast — 

And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. 




438 




MORTE D'ARTHUR. 



So all day long the noise of battle roll'd 
Among the mountains by the winter t^ea; 
439 



MORTE D'ARTHUR. 

Until King Arthur's table, man by man, 

Had fall'n in Lyonness about their Lord, 

King Arthur: then, because his wound Avas deep, 

The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him. 

Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights, 

And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, 

A broken chancel Avith a broken cross. 

That stood on a dark strait of barren land. 

On one side lay the Ocean, and on one 

Lay a great water, and the moon was full. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 
"The sequel of to-day unsolders all 
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights 
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep 
They sleep — the men I loved. I think that wo 
Shall never more, at any future time, 
Delight our souls Avith talk of knightly deeds, 
Walking about the gardens and the halls 
Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 
I perish by this people Avhich I made, — 
Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again 
To rule once more — but let what will be, be, 
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm 
That Avithout help I cannot last till morn. 
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, 
Which Avas my pride : for thou rememberest hoAV 
In those old days, one summer noon, an arm 
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake. 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 
Holding the SAVord — and how I row'd across 
And took it, and ha\'e worn it, like a king : 
And, Avheresoever I am sung or told 
In aftertime, this also shall be known; 
But now delay not: take Excalibur, 
And fling him far into the middle mere : 
Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me Avord. 

To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere : 
4tO 



TENNYSON. 

"It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee Liius^. 
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm. 
A little thing may harm a wounded man. 
Yet I thy hest will all perform at full, 
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word." 

So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept 
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs, 
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men, 
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang 
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down 
By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock, 
Came on the shining levels of the lake. 

There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, 
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon, 
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth 
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt : 
For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, 
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work 
Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long 
That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood, 
This way and that dividing the swift mind, 
In act to throw : but at the last it seem'd 
Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd 
There in the many-knotted waterflags, 
That whistled stift' and dry about the marge. 
So strode he back slow to the wounded King. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: 
" Hast thou perform'd my mission which I gave '? 
What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?" 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 
" I heard the ripple washing in the reeds. 
And the wild water lapping on the crag." 

To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale : 
"Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name. 
Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd 
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight : 
For surer sign had follow' d, either hand, 
441 



MORTE D' ARTHUR. 

Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. 
This is a shameful thing for men to lie. 
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again 
As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing 
I bad thee, watch, and lightly bring me word." 

Then went Sir Bedivere the second time 
Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere, 
Counting the de^vy pebbles, fix'd in thought ; 
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, 
How curiously and sti'angely chased, he smote 
His palms together, and he cried aloud. 

"And if indeed I cast the brand away. 
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, 
Should thus be lost for ever from the earth, 
Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. 
What good should follow this, if this were done? 
What harm, undone? deep hai'm to disobey, 
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
Were it well to obey then, if a king demand 
An act unprofitable, against himself? 
The King is sick, and knows not what he does. 
What record, or what relic of my lord 
Should be to aftertime, but empty breath 
And rumours of a doubt? but were this kept. 
Stored in some treasure-house of mighty king.-, 
Some one might show it at a joust of arms, 
Saying, ' King Arthur's SAvord, Excalibur, 
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. 
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deejts 
Upon the hidden bases of the hills.' 
So might some old man speak in the aftertime 
To all the people, Avinning reverence. 
But now much honour and much fame were lost.' 

So spake he, clouded with his OAvn conceit. 
And hid Excalibur the second time, 
And so strode back slow to the wounded King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavilv : 
442 



TENNYSON. 

■' What is it thou hast seen ? or what hast heard V 

And answer made the bokl Sir Bedivere : 
'' I heard the water lapping on the crag, 
And the long ripple washing in the reeds." 

To whom replied King Arthur, much in \\Tath : 
" Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
Unknightly, traitor-hearted ! Woe is me ! 
Authority forgets a dying king, 
Laid widow' d of the power in his eye 
That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art. 
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights, 
I In whom should meet the offices of all. 
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt ; 
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. 
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, 
And the third time may prosper, get thee hence : 
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 
I will arise and slay thee with my hands." 

Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran. 
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged 
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd the sword, 
And strongly Avhcel'd and threw it. The great brand 
Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon. 
And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch, 
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn. 
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock 
By night, with noises of the northern sea. 
So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur : 
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in the mere. 
And lightly went the other to the King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath: 
"'Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. 
Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?" 
443 



MORTE D' ARTHUR. 

And answei' made the bold Sir Bediverc : 
" Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems 
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw, 
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die, 
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men, 
So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 
Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him ; 
But when I look'd again, behold an arm. 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, Avonderful, 
That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in the mere." 

And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard: 
" My end draws nigh ; 'tis time that I were gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight, 
And bear me to the margin ; yet I fear 
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die." 

So saying, from the pavement he half rose, 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm, 
And looking wistfullj^ mth wide blue eyes 
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears. 
And would have spoken, but he found not words, 
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee, 
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands. 
And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs. 

But, as he walk'd. King Arthur panted hard, 
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed 
When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King, 
Muttering and murmuring at his ear •' Quick, quick I 
I fear it is too late, and I shall die." 
But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge. 
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd. 
Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry 
Before. His own thought drove him like a goad. 
Diy clash' d his harness in the icy caves 
And barren chasms, and all to left and right 



TENNYSON. 

Tlie bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based 
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang 
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels — 
And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake, 
And the long glories of the winter moon. 

Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge. 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern, 
Beneath them ; and descending they were ware 
That all the decks were dense with stately forms 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — by these 
Three Queens Avith crowns of gold — and from them rose 
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars, 
And, as it were one voice, an agonj'^ 
Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills 
All night in a waste land, where no one comes. 
Or hath come, since the making of the world. 

Then murmur'd Arthur, *•' Place me in the barge," 
And to tlie barge they came. There those three Queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. 
But she, that rose the tallest of them all 
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap. 
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands, 
And caird him by his name, complaining loud, 
And dropping bitter tears against his brow 
Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white 
And colourless, and like the wither'd moon 
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east ; 
And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops 
Of onset ; and the light and lustrous curls — 
That made his forehead like a rising sun 
High from the dais-throne — were parch'd with dust ; 
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, 
Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed liis lips. 
So like a shatter'd column lay the King ; 
Not lilie that Arthur who, Avith lance in rest. 
From spur to plume a star of tournament, 
445 



MORTE D' ARTHUR. 

Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged 
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bcdivere, 
" Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go ? 
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes? 
For now I see the true old times are dead, 
When every morning brought a noble chance, 
And every chance brought out a noble knight. 
Such times have been not since the light that led 
The holy Elders Avith the gift of myrrh. 
But now the whole round table is dissolved 
Which was an image of the mighty world ; 
And I, the last, go forth companionless, 
And the days darken round me, and the years. 
Among new men, strange faces, other minds." 

And slowly answer'd Arthur from the barge : 
" The old order changeth, yielding place to new. 
And God fulfils himself in many ways, 
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. 
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in met 
I have lived my life, and that which I have done 
May He within himself make pure ! but thou, 
If thou shouldst never see my face again. 
Pray for my soul. More things are Avrought by prayer 
Than this world dreams of. Wlierefore, let thy Aoice 
Rise like a fountain for me night and day. 
For what are men better than sheep or goats 
That nourish a blind life within the brain. 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer 
Both for themselves and those Avho call them friend ? 
For so the whole round earth is every way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 
But now farewell. I am going a long way 
With these thou seest — if indeed I go — 
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) 
To the island-valley of Avilion ; 
Where falls not haD, or rain, or any snow. 
446 




Nor ever wind blows loudly ; but it lies 
Deep-meadow' d, happy, fair with orchard-lawns 
And bowery hollows croTvni'd Avith summer sea, 
Wliere I will heal me of my grievous wound." 
447 



MORTE D'ARTHUR. 

So said he, and the barge with oar and sail 
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan 
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, 
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood 
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere 
Revolving many memories, till the hull 
Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn. 
And on the mere the wailing died away. 



448 




EDWARD GRAY 



S\YEET Emma Moreland of yonder town 

Met me walking on yonder way, 
"And have you lost your heart?" she said; ^^ 

"And are you married yet, Edward Grayf 

Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me : 

Bitterly weeping I turn'd away: 
" Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more 

Can touch the heart of Edward Gray 
•i49 



EDWARD GRAY. 

•' Ellen Adair she loved ine well, 

Against her father's and mother's will : 

To-day I sat for an hour and wej^t, 
By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill. 

"Shy she. was, and I thought her cold; 

Thought her proud, and fled over the sea 
Fill'd I Avas with folly and spite, 

When Ellen Adair was dying for hio. 

"Cruel, cruel the words I said! 

Cruelly came they back to-day : 
' You're too slight and fickle,' I said, 

'To trouble the heart of Edward Gray.' 

"There I put my face in the grass — 
Whisper'd, ' Listen to my despair : 

I repent me of all I did : 
Speak a little, Ellen Adair!' 

"Then I took a pencil, and WTOte 

On the mossy stone, as I lay, 
' Here lies the body of Ellen Adair ; 

And here the heart of Edward Graj' I ' 

"Love may come, and love may go, 
And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree : 

But I will love no more, no more, 
Till Ellen Adair come back to mc. 

"Bitterly wept I over the stone: 
Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : 

There lies the body of Ellen Adair ! 

And there the heart of Edward Gray I" 



450 




THE GOOSE. 

I KNEW an old wife lean and poor, 
Her rags scarce held together ; 

There strode a stranger to the door, 
And it was windy weather. 

He held a goose upon his arm, 

He ntter'd rhyme and reason, 
" Here, take the goose, and keep you warm. 

It is a stormy season." 



She caught the white goose by the leg, 
A goose — 'twas no great matter. 

The goose let fall a golden egg 
With cackle and Avith clatter. 
451 



THE GOOSE. 

She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf, 
And ran to tell her neighbours ; 

And bless'd herself, and cursed herself. 
And rested from her labours. 

And feeding high, and living soft. 

Grew plump and able-bodied ; 
Until the grave churchwarden doiF'd. 

The parson smirk'd and nodded. 

So sitting, served by man and maid, 
She felt her heart gi-ow prouder : 

But ah ! the more the white goose laid 
It clack'd and cackled louder. 

It clutter'd here, it chuckled there ; 

It stirr'd the old wife's mettle : 
She shifted in her elbow-chair, 

And hurl'd the pan and kettle. 

" A quinsy choke thy cursed note !" 
Then wax'd her anger stronger. 

"Go, take the goose, and wring her throat, 
I will not bear it longer." 

Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat : 
Ean Gafter, stumbled Gammer. 

The goose flew this way and flew that. 
And fill'd the house with clamour. 

As head and heels upon the floor 

They flounder'd all together. 
There strode a stranger to the door. 

And it was windy weather: 
•452 



TENNYSON. 

He took the goose upon his arm, 
He utter' d words of scorning; 

" So keep you cold, or keep you warm, 
It is a stormy morning." 

The wild wind rang from park and plain, 
And round the attics rumbled. 

Till all the tables danced again. 
And half the chimneys tumbled. 

The glass blew in, the fire blew out, 
The blast was hard and harder. 

Her cap blew off, her go\Mi blew up. 
And a whirlwind clear'd the larder; 

And while on all sides breaking loose 
Her household fled the danger. 

Quoth she, " The Devil take the goose. 
And God foraet the stranger !" 



453 




IJkeak, break, break, 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! 
And I Avould that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 



O Avell for the fisherman's boy, 

That he shouts Avith his sister at play ! 

O well for the sailor lad, 

That he sings in his boat on the bay I 



TENNYSON. 

And the stately ships go on 
To their haven under the hill; 

But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, 
And the sound of a voice that is still ! 

Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

AVill never come back to me. 



455 



COOKE. 
FLORENCE VANE. 

I LOVED thee long and dearly, 

Florence Vane; 
My life's bright dream, and early 

Hath come again ; 
I renew in my fond vision. 

My heart's dear pain, 
My hope, and thy derision, 

Florence Vane. 

The ruin lone and hoary. 

The ruin old. 
Where thou didst mark my story, 

At even told, — 
That spot — the hues Elysian 

Of sky and plain — 
I treasure in my vision, 

Florence Vane. 

Thou wast lovelier than the roses 

In their prime ; 
Thy voice excelled the closes 

Of sweetest rhyme ; 
Thy heart was as a river 

Without a main. 
Would I had loved thee never, 

Florence Vane! 

But, fairest, coldest wonder ! 

Thy glorious clay 
Lieth the green sod under — 

Alas the day ! 
45G 



COOKE. 

And it boots not to remember 

Thy disdain — 
To quicken love's pale ember, 

Florence Vane. 

The lilies of the valley 

By young graves weep, 
The pausies love to dally 

Where maidens sleep ; 
May their bloom, in beauty vying, 

Never wane 
Where thine earthly part is lying, 

Florence Vane ! 



YOUNG ROSALIE LEE. 

I LOVE to forget ambition. 

And hope, in the mingled thought 
Of valley, and wood, and meadow. 

Where, whilom, my spirit caught 
Affection's holiest breathings— 

Where under the skies, with me 
Young Rosalie roved, aye drinking 

From joy's bright Castaly. 

I think of the valley and river. 

Of the old wood bright with blossoms ; 
Of the pure and chastened gladness 

Upspringing in our bosoms. 
I think of the lonely turtle 

So tongued with melancholy; 
Of the hue of the drooping moonlight. 

And the starlight pure and holy. 
457 



YOUNG EOSALIE LEE. 

Of the beat of a heart most tender, 

The sigh of a shell-tinct lij) 
As soft as the land-tones wandering 

Far leagues over ocean deep ; 
Of a step as light in its falling 

On the breast of the beaded lea 
As the fall of the faery moonlight 

On the leaf of yon tulip tree. 

I think of these — and the murmur 

Of bird, and katydid, 
Whose home is the grave-yard cypress, 

Wliose goblet the honey-reed. 
And then I Aveep! for Eosalie 

Has gone to her early rest ; 
And the green-lipped reed and the daisy 

Suck sweets from her maiden breast. 



45 R 





WHITTIEU. 



MAUD MULLER. 



Maud Muller, on a summer's day, 
Raked the meadow, sweet with hay. 

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth 
Of simple beauty and rustic health. 
4r,9 



MAUD MULLER. 

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee 
The mock-bird echoed from his tree. 

But, when she glanced to the far-off town, 
Wliite from its hill-slope looking doA\ai, 

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest 
And a nameless longing filled her breast — 

A wish, that she hardly dared to o^vn. 
For something better than she had known. 

The Judge rode slowly down the lane, 
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. 

He drew his bridle m the shade 

Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, 

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed 
Through the meadow across the road. 

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, 
And filled for him her small tin cup, 

And blushed as she gave it, looking down 
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. 

" Thanks !" said the Judge, " a sweeter draught 
From a fairer hand was never quaffed." 

He spoke of the grass and floAvers and trees. 
Of the singing birds and the humming bees ; 

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether 
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. 

And Maud forgot her brier-torn goT\ai, 
And her graceful ankles bare and brown ; 

And listened, while a pleased surprise 
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. 

At last, like one who for delay 
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 
4G0 



WHITTIEE. 

Maud Muller looked and sighed : " Ah, me I 
That I the Judge's bride might be! 

"He would dress me up in silks so fine. 
And praise and toast me at his wine. 

"My father should wear a broadcloth coat; 
My brother should sail a painted boat. 

" I'd dress my mother so grand and gay, 

And the baby should have a new toy each day. 

"And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor. 
And all should bless me who left our door." 

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, 
And saw Maud Muller standing still. 

"A form more fair, a face more sweet. 
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. 

"And her modest answer and graceful air 
Show her wise and good as she is fair. 

"Would she were mine, and I to-day, 
Like her, a harvester of hay : 

"No doubtful balance of rights and Avrougs, 
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, 

"But low of cattle and song of birds. 
And health and quiet and loving words." 

But he thought of his sisters proud and cold, 
And his mother vain of her rank and gold. 

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on. 
And Maud was left in the field alone. 

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, 
When he hummed in court an old love-tune ; 

And the young girl mused beside the well, 
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. 
461 



MAUD MULLER. 

He wedded a wife of richest dower, 
Who lived for fashion, as he for power. 

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, 
He watched a picture come and go: 

And sweet Maud Muller s hazel eyes 
Looked out in their innocent surprise. 

Oft when the wine in his glass Avas red, 
He longed for the way-side Avell instead; 

And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms. 
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms. 

And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain 
"Ah, that I were free again! 

" Free as when I rode that day. 

Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay." 

She wedded a man unlearned and poor, 
And many children played round her door. 

But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain. 
Left their traces on heart and brain. 

And oft, when the simimer sun shone hot 
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, 

And she heard the little spring-brook fall 
Over the road-side, through the wall. 

In the shade of the apple-tree again 
She saw a rider draw his rein : 

And, gazing down Avith timid grace, 
She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls 
Stretched away into stately halls ; 

The weary wheel to a spinnet turned. 
The tallow candle an astral burned, 
462 



WHITTIER. 

And for him who sat by the chimney lug. 
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, 

A manly form at her side she saw, 
And joy was duty and love was law. 

Then she took up her burden of life again. 
Saying only, " It might have been." 

Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, 

For rich repiner and household drudge ! 

God pity them both ! and pity us all, 
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall. 

For of all sad words of tongue or pen, 

The saddest are these : " It might have been !' 

Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies 
Deeply buried from human eyes ; 

And, in the hereafter, angels may 
Koll the stone from its grave away! 



GONE. 



Another hand is beckoning us, 

Another call is given ; 
And glows once more with Angel-steps 

The path which reaches Heaven. 

Our young and gentle friend whose smile 
Made brighter summer hours, 

Amid the frosts of autumn time 
lias left us, with the flowers. 
463 



GONE. 

No paling of the cheek of bloom 

Forewarned us of decay; 
No shadow from the Silent Land 

Fell round our sister's way. 

The light of her young life went down. 

As sinks behind the hill 
The glory of a setting star — 

Clear, suddenly, and still. 

As pure and sAveet, her foir brow seemed — 

Eternal as the sky ; 
And like the brook's low song, her voice — 

A sound which could not die. 

And half we deemed she needed not 

The changing of her sphere. 
To give to Heaven a Shining One, 

Who walked an Angel here. 

The blessing of her quiet life 

Fell on us like the dew; 
And good thoughts, where her footsteps ])ressed. 

Like fairy blossoms grew. 

Sweet promptings unto kindest deeds 

Were in her very look ; 
We read her face, as one Avho reads 

A true and holy book: 

The measure of a blessed hymn, 
To which our hearts could move ; 

The breathing of an inward psalm ; 
A canticle of love. 

We miss her in the place of prayer. 

And by the hearth-fire's light; 
We pause beside her door to hear 

Once more her s\yeet "• Good-night !" 
464 



WHITTIER. 

There seem? a shadow on the daj, 

Her smile no longer cheers ; 
A dimness on the stars of night, 

Like eyes that look through tears. 

Alone unto our Father's Avill 
One thought hath reconciled ; 

That He Avhose love exceedeth ours 
Hath taken home His child. 

Fold her, oh Father! in thine arms, 

And let her henceforth be 
A messenger of love between 

Our human hearts and Thee. 

Still let her mild rebuking stand 

Between us and the wrong, 
And her dear memory serve to make 

Our faith in Goodness strong. 

And, grant that she who, trembling, bore 

Distrusted all her powers. 
May welcome to her holier home 

The well beloved of ours. 



4g: 



lii;l|Jiil^>^./'?'iK 





POE. 



THE RAVEN. 



Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, 
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore— ^ 
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, 
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. 
"Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door- 
Only this and nothing more. 
466 



POE. 

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, 
And each separate dying ember wi'ought its ghost upon the floor. 
Eagerly I wished the morrow ; — vainly I had sought to borrow 
From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore — 
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore — 

Nameless here for evermore. 

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain 
Thrilled me— filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before ; 
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating 
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door — 
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; 

This it is and nothing more.' 

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, 
" Sir," said I, " or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore ; 
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping. 
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, 
That I scarce was sure I heard you" — here I opened wide the door ; — 

Dax'kness there and nothing more 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing 
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before ; 
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token. 
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?" 
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" — 

Merely this and nothing more 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burnuig, 
Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before. 
" Surely," said I, " surely that is something at my window lattice ; 
Let me sec, then, what thereat is and this mystery explore — 
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore ; — 

'Tis the wind and nothing more." 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, 
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. 

467 



THE RAVEN. 

Not the least obeisance made he ; not a minute stopped or stayed he ; 
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door — 
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door — 

Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, 

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, 

" Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, " art sure no 

craven, 
Ghastly grim and ancient Kaven wandering from the Nightly shore — 
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" 

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, 

Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore ; 

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door — 

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door. 

With such name as "Nevermore." 

But the Eaven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only 
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. 
Nothing farther then he uttered ; not a feather then he fluttered — 
Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before — 
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before." 

Then the bird said "Nevermore." 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, 
"Doubtless," said I, "Avhat it utters is its only stock and store 
Caught from some unhappy master Avhom unmerciful Disaster 
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore — 
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore 

Of ' Never — nevermore.' " 

But the Eaven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling. 
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door ; 
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking 

408 



POE. 

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore — 
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore 

Meant in croaking "Nevermore." 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing 
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core ; 
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining 
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er. 
But whose velvet violet lining Avith the lamp-light gloating o'er 

She shall press, ah, nevermore ! 

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer 
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. 
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee — by these angels he hath 

sent thee 
Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore ! 
Quaff, oh quaff" this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore !" 

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil I — prophet still, if bird or devil! — 

Wliether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, 

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted — 

On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore — 

Is there — is there balm in Gilead? — tell me — tell me, I implore!" 

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore.'' 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil — prophet still, if bird or devil! 
By that Heaven that bends above us — by that God we both adore — 
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, 
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore — 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." 

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore.'' 

" Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend !" I shrieked, up- 
starting — 
'•Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! 
r^ave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! 



THE RAVEN. 

Leave my loneliness unbroken ! — quit the bust above my door ! 
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door I" 

Quoth the Kaven, "Nevermore."' 

And the Kaven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting 

< )n the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door ; 

.^d his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, 

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; 

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor 

Shall be lifted — nevermore! 



470 






(V^ 






"^iifj 



■iiy 




> i«g'5"' 



LONGFELLOW. 
HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 

'AoTraairj, Tpl7i'ki.GT0(;. 
I HEARD the trailing garments of the Kight 

Sweep through her marble halls! 
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light 
From the celestial walls! 
471 



HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 

I felt her presence, by its sjiell of might, 

Stoop o'er me from above ; 
The calm, majestic presence of the Night, 

As of the one I love. 

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight. 

The manifold, soft chimes, 
Tliat fill the haunted chambers of the Night, 

Like some old poet's rhymes. 

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air 

My spirit drank repose ; 
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, 

From those deep cisterns flows. 

O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear 

AVhat man has borne before ; 
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, 

And they complain no more. 

Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! 

Descend with broad-winged flight. 
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, 

The best-beloved Night! 



472 




RESIGNATION. 

There is no flock, however watched and tended, 

But one dead lamb is there! 
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, 

But has one vacant chair! 



The air is full of farewells to the dying, 

And mournings for the dead; 
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, 

Will not be comforted! 
473 



RESIGNATION. 

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions 

Not from the ground arise, 
But oftentimes celestial benedictions 

Assume this dark disguise. 

We see but dimly through the mists and vapours, 

Amid these earthly damps ; 
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers, 

May be heaven's distant lamps. 

There is no Death ! AVhat seems so is transition : 

This life of mortal breath 
Is but a suburb of the life elysian. 

Whose portal Ave call Death. 

She is not dead, — the child of our affection, — 

But gone unto that school 
Where she no longer needs our poor protection, 

And Christ himself doth rule. 

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, 

By guardian angels led. 
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution. 

She lives, whom we call dead. 

Day after day we think what she is doing 

In those bright realms of air ; 
Year after year her tender steps pursuing, 

Behold her grown more fair. 

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken 

The bond which nature gives, 
Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, 

May reach her where she lives. 
474 



LONGFELLOW. 

Not as a child shall we agam behold her; 

For when with raptures wild 
111 our embraces we again enfold her, 

She wUl not be a chUd; 

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, 

Clothed with celestial grace ; 
And beautiful with all the soul's expansion 

Shall we behold her face. 

And though at times impetuous with emotion 

And anguish long suppressed, 
The swelling heart heaves moanmg like the ocean, 

That cannot be at rest, — 

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling 

We may not wholly stay ; 
But silence sanctifying, not concealing. 

The grief that must have way. 



475 




KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN. 



AViTLAF, a king of the Saxon?, 
Ere yet his last he breathed, 

'I'o the merry monks of CroyUmd 
His drinking-horn bequeathed, — 
t7G 



LONGFELLOW. 

That, whenever they sat at their i-evels, 
And drank from the golden bowl, 

They might remember the donor, 
And bi'eathe a prayer for his soul. 




So sat they once at Christmas, 
And bade the goblet pass ; 

In their beards the red wine glistened 
Like dew-drops in tlie grass. 
477 



laNG WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN. 

Tliey drank to the soul of Witlaf, 
They drank to Christ 'the Lord, 

And to each of the Twelve Apostles, 
Who had preached his holy word. 

They drank to the Saints and Martyrs 

Of the dismal days of yore, 
And as soon as the horn was empty 

They remembered one Saint more. 

And the reader droned from the pulpit. 
Like the murmur of many bees. 

The legend of good Saint Guthlac, 
And Saint Basil's homilies; 

Till the gi-eat bells of the convent, 
From their prison in the tower, 

Guthlac and Bartholomteus, 
Proclaimed the midnight hour. 

And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney. 

And the Abbot bowed his head. 
And the flamelets flapped and flickered. 

But the Abbot was stark and dead. 

Yet still in his pallid fingers 
He clutched the golden bowl, 

In which, like a pearl dissolving. 
Had sunk and dissolved his soul. 

But not for this their revels 

The jovial monks forbore, 
For they cried, " Fill high the goblet : 

We must drink to one Saint moi-e 1" 



478 





EXCELSIOR. 

The shades of night "^-ere faUing fast. 
As through an Alpine viUage passed 
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 
A banner \\-ith the strange device, 
Excelsior ! 



His brow was sad; his eye beneath, 
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath. 
And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unkno^\-n tongue, 
Excelsior ! 
479 



EXCELSIOR. 

In liappy homes he saw the light 
Of household fires gleam warm and bright 
Above, the spectral glaciers shone, 
And from his li^is escaped a groan, 
Excelsior ! 

" Try not the Pass !" the old man said ; 
" Dark lowers the tempest overhead, 
The roaring torrent is deep and wide I"' 
And loud that clarion voice replied, 
Excelsior ! 

"O, stay," the maiden said, "and rest 
Thy Aveary head upon this breast!" 
A tear stood in his bright blue eye, 
But still he answered, with a sigh. 
Excelsior ! 

"Beware the pine-tree's Avithered branch! 
Beware the awful avalanche!" 
This was the peasant's last Good-niglit ; 
A voice replied, far up the height. 
Excelsior ! 

At break of day, as heaven ^^ard 
The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
A voice cried through the startled air, 

Excelsior ! 



A traveller, by the faithful hound, 
ITalf-buried in the snoAV was found, 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner Avith the strange device, 
Excelsior ! 
480 



LONGFELLOW. 

There, in the twilight cold and gray, 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, 
And from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell, like a falling star, 
Excelsior ! 



481 



w 




TUCKERJ^IAN. 



WEST POINT. 



Wild umbrage far around me clings 
To bi'eezy knoll and hushed ravine, 

And o'er each rocky headland flings 
Its mantle of refreshing green. 

482 



TUCKERMAN. 

The echoes that so boldly rung 

When cannon flashed from steep to steep, 
And Freedom's airy challenge flung. 

In each romantic valley sleep. 

His counsels here our chieftain breathed. 

Here roved his mild, undaunted eye, 
When yon lone fort with thickets wreathed, 

Held captive Britain's gallant spy. 

Fit home to rear a nation's youth 
By self-control to nerve the will. 

Through knowledge gain expansive truth, 
And with high aims life's circle fill. 

How grateful is the sudden change 
From arid pavements to the grass, 

From narrow streets that thousands range, 
To meadows where June's zephyrs pass! 

Beneath the cliffs the river steals 
In darksome eddies to the shore, 

But midway every sail reveals 
Eeflected on its crystal floor. 

In tranquil mood the cattle walk 
Along the verdant marge to feed, 

While poised upon the mullein stalk 
The chirping red-bird pecks the seed. 

Low murmurs in the foliage bred. 
The clear horizon's azure line, 

Fresh turf elastic to the tread. 
And leafy canopies are thine. 
d83 



WEST POINT. 

White fleecy clouds move slowly by, 
How cool their shadows fall to-day '. 

A moment on the hills they lie, 
And then like spirits glide away. 

Amid the herbage, yesternight 

His web the cunning spider threw, 

And now, as sparkling diamonds .'bright, 
It glistens with the pendent dew.- 

Gay butterflies dart on and sink 
O'er the sweet blossoms of the pea, 

And from the clover's globe of pink 
Contented hums the downy bee. 

In all his varied beauty gloAvs 

Deep meaning for the thoughtful heart. 
As it were fain to teach repo.ae, 

And lofty confidence impart. 

How vivid to my fancy now, 

Uprise the forms that life redeem ! 

The ardent eye — the open brow. 
And tender smile beside me seem. 



For Nature's presence gathers back 

The deeds that gi-ace, the loves that cheer. 

And as her holy steps we track, 

Hope's rainbow breaks through sorrow's tear 



484 



^. 




< ' <r,^''"'^y j|>>^-"*mV\V 



HOLMES. 



THE LAST LEAF. 



I SAW him once before, 
As he passed by the door, 

And again 
The pavement stones resound 
As he totters o'er the ground 

With his cane. 
485 



THE LAST LEAF. 

They say that in his prime, 
Ere the pruning-knife of Time 

Cut him down, 
Not a better man was found 
By the Crier on his round 

Through the town. 

But now he walks the streets, 
And he looks at all he meets 

Sad and wan, 
And he shakes his feeble head, 
That it seems as if he said, 

"They are gone." 

The mossy marbles rest 

On the lips that he has prest 

In their bloom, 
And the names he loved to hear 
Have been carved for many a year 

On the tomb. 

My grandmamma has said, — 
Poor old lady, she is dead 

Long ago,— 
That he had a Eoman nose, 
And his cheek was like a rose 

In the snow. 

But now his nose is thin, 
And it rests upon his chin 

Like a staff. 
And a crook is in his back, 
And a melancholy crack 

In his laugh. 

I know it is a sin 
For me to sit and gi"in 
At him here ; 
486 



HOLMES. 

But the old three-cornered hat. 
And the breeches, and all that, 
Are so queer! 

And if I should live to be 
The last leaf upon the tree 

In the spring, — 
Let them smile, as I do now, 
At the old forsaken bough 

Where I cling. 



is: 







ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL. 



This ancient silver bowl of mine — it tells of good old times, 
Of joyous days and jolly nights, and merry Christmas chimes ; 
They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave and true, 
That dipped their ladle in the punch when this old bowl was new. 

488 



HOLMES. 

A Spanish galleon brought the bar — so runs the ancient tale — 
'Twas hammered by an Antwerp smith, Avhose arm was like a flail ; 
iVnd now and then between the strokes, for fear his strength should fail. 
He wiped his brow, and quafled a cup of good old Flemish ale. 

'Twas purchased by an English squire to please his loving dame, 
Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a longing for the same ; 
And oft as on the ancient stock another twig was found, 
'Twas filled with caudle spiced and hot, and handed smoking round. 

But, changing hands, it reached at length a Puritan divine, 

Who used to follow Timothy, and take a little wine, 

But hated punch and prelacy; and so it was, perhaps, 

He went to Leyden, where he found conventicles and schnaps. 

And then, of course, you know what's next — it left the Dutchman's shore 
With those that in tlie Mayfloiver came, — a hundred souls and more.— 
Along with all the furniture, to fill their new abodes — 
To judge by what is still on hand, at least a hundred loads. 

*Twas on a dreary winter's eve, the night was closing dim, 
Wlien old Miles Standish took the bowl, and filled it to the biiin. 
The little Captain stood and stirred the posset Avith his sword, 
And all his sturdy men at arms were ranged about the board. 

He poured the fiery hollands in — the man that never feared — 
He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard; 
And one by one the musketeers, the men that fought and prayed, 
All drank as 'twere their mother's mUk,- and not a man afraid ! 

That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle flew. 
He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldier's Avild halloo ; 
And there the sachem learned the rule he taught to kith and kin, 
"Kun from the white man when you find he smells of hollands gin 1'" 

A hundred years, and fifty more had spread their leaves and snows. 
A thousand rubs had flattened doA\^l each little cherub's nose ; 
When once again the bowl was filled, but not in mirth or joy, 
'Twas mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting boy. 

489 



ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL. 

Drink, John, she said, 'twill do you good — poor child, you'll npver bear 
This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight air. 
And if — God bless me — you were hurt, 'twould keep away the chill ; 
So John did drink — and well he Avrought that night at Bunker's Hill! 

I tell you, there was generous warmth in good old English cheer; 
I tell you, 'twas a pleasant thought to bring its symbol here ; 
'Tis but the fool that loves excess — hast thou a drunken soul, 
Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl ! 

I love the memory of the past — its pressed yet fragrant flowers — 
The moss that clothes its broken walls — the ivy on its towers — 
Nay, this poor bauble it bequeathed — my eyes grow moist and dim, 
To think of all the vanished joys that danced around its brim. 

Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight to me ; 

The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er the liquid be ; 

And may the cherubs on its face protect me from the sin, 

That dooms one to those dreadful words — " My dear, where have you been ?" 



490 










STREET. 



A FOREST NOOK. 



A NOOK within the forest ; overhead 
The branches arch, and shape a pleasant bower, 
Breaking white cloud, blue sky and sunshine bright, 
Into pure ivory and sapphire spots, 
491 



A FOREST NOOK. 

And flecks of gold ; a soft cool emerald tint 
Colours the air, as though the delicate leaves 
Emitted self-born light. AVhat splendid walls 
And what a gorgeous roof carved by the hand 
Of glorious Nature ! Plere the spruce thrusts in 
Its bristling plume, tipp'd with its pale green points ; 
The scallop'd beech leaf, and the birch's cut 
Into fine ragged edges, interlace : 
While here and there, through clefts, the laurel lifts 
Its snowy chalices half-brinim'd with dew, 
As though to hoard it for the haunting elves 
The moonlight calls to this their festal hall, 
A thick, rich, grassy carpet clothes the earth, 
Sprinkled with autumn leaves. The fern displays 
Its fluted wreath beaded beneath Avith drops 
Of richest brown ; the wild-rose spreads its breast 
Of delicate pink, and the o'erhanging fir 
Has dropp'd its dark, long cone. 

The scorching glare 
Without, makes this green nest a grateful haunt 
For summer's radiant things ; the butterfly 
Fluttering within and resting on some flower, 
Fans his rich velvet form ; the toiling bee 
Shoots by, with sounding hum and mist-like wings ; 
The robin perches on the bending spray 
With shrill, quick chirp; and like a flake of fire 
The redbird seeks the shelter of the leaves. 
And now and then a flutter overhead 
In the thick green, betrays some wandering wing 
Coming and going, yet conceal'd from sight. 
A shrill, loud outcry — on yon highest bough 
Sits the gray squirrel, in his burlesque wrath 
Stamping and chattering fiercely : now he drops 
A hoarded nut, then at my smiling gaze 
Buries himself within the foliage. 
The insect tribe are here ; the ant toils on 
With its white burthen ; in its netted web 
492 



STEEET. 

Gray glistening o'er the bush, the spider lurks, 

A close-crouch'd ball, out-darting as a hum 

Tells its trapp'd prey, and looping quick its threads, 

Chains into helplessness the buzzing Avings. 

The wood-tick taps its tiny muffled drum 

To the shrill cricket-fife, and swelling loud. 

The grasshopper its swelling bugle winds. 

Those breaths of Nature, the light fluttering aii-s 

Like gentle respirations, come and go. 

Lift on its crimson stem the maple-leaf. 

Displaying its white lining underneath. 

And sprinkle from the tree-tops golden rain 

Of sunshine on the velvet sward below. 

Such nooks as this are common in the woods : 

And all these sights and sounds the commonest 

In Nature when she wears her summer prime. 

Yet by them pass not lightly: to the wise 

They tell the beauty and the harmony 

Of e'en the lowliest things that God hath made. 

That His familiar earth and sky are full 

Of Llis ineffable power and majesty; 

That in the humble objects, seen too oft 

To be regarded, is such wondrous grace, 

The art of man is vain to imitate ; 

That the low flower our careless foot treads down 

Is a rich shrine of incense delicate, 

And radiant beauty, and that God hath form'd 

All, frbm the eloud-AATeath'd mountain, to the grain 

Of silver sand the bubbling spring casts up 

With deepest forethought and severest care. 

And thus these noteless lovely things are types 

Of his perfection and divinity. 



493 



ROBERT BROWNING. 



TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA. 

I WONDER do you feel to-day 

As I have felt, since, hand in hand, 

We sat down on the grass, to stray 
In spirit better through the land, 

This morn of Eome and May? 

For me, I touched a thought, I knoAv, 
Has tantalised me many times, 

(Like turns of thread the spiders throw 
Mocking across our path,) for rhymes 

To catch at and let go. 

Help me to hold it: first it left 
The yellowing fennel, run to seed 

There, branching from the brickwork's cleft. 
Some old tomb's ruin : yonder weed 

Took up the floating weft, 

Where one small orange-cup amassed 

Five beetles, — blind and green they grope 

Among the honey-meal, — and last 
Everywhere on the grassy slope 

I traced it. Hold it fast! 

The champaign with its endless fleece 
Of feathery grasses everywhere ! 

Silence and passion, joy and peace. 
An everlasting wash of air — 

Home's ghost since her decease. 
49t 




yuch life there, through such lengths of hour?, 

Such miracles performed in play, 
Such primal naked forms of flowers, 

Such letting Nature have her way 
While Heaven looks from its towers. 



How say you? Let us, O my dove, 
Let us be unashamed of soul. 

As earth lies bare to heaven above. 
How is it under our control 

To love or not to love ? 
49.5 



TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA. 

I would that you were all to me, 

You that are just so much, no more — 

Nor yours, nor mine, — nor slave nor free ! 
Where does the fault lie? what the core 

Of the wound, since wound must be? 

I would I could adopt your will, 

See with your eyes, and set my heart 

Beating by yours, and drink my fill 

At your soul's springs, — your part, my part 

In life, for good and ill. 

No. I yearn upward — touch you close. 
Then stand away. I kiss your cheek, 

Catch your soul's warmth, — I pluck the rose 
And love it more than tongue can speak, — 

Then the good minute goes. 

Already how am I so far 

Out of that minute? Must I go 

Still like the thistle-ball, no bar. 

Onward, whenever light winds blow, 

Fixed by no friendly star? 

Just when I seemed about to learn ! — 
Where is the thread now ? Off again ! 

The old trick ! Only I discern — 
Infinite passion and the pain 

Of finite hearts that yearn. 



496 



ROBEET BROWNING. 



EVELYN HOPE. 

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead ; 

Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
That is her book-shelf, this her bed ; 

She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, 
Beginning to die too, in the glass. 

Little has yet been changed, I think — 
The shutters are shut, no light may pass 

Save two long rays thro' the hinge's chink. 

Sixteen years old when she died ! 

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name — 
It was not her time to love : beside, 

Her life had many a hope and aim. 
Duties enough and little cares. 

And now was quiet, now astir — 
Till God's hand beckoned unawares. 

And the sweet Avhite brow is all of her. 

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope? 

What, your soul was pure and true, 
The good stars met in your horoscope, 

Made you of spirit, fire, and dew ; 
And just because I was thrice as old. 

And our paths in the world diverged so Avldo, 
Each was nought to each, must I be told? 

We were fellow-mortals, nought beside? 

No, indeed! for God above 

Is great to grant, as mighty to make, 
And creates the love to reward the love, — 

I claim you still, for my own love's sake ! 
497 



EVELYN HOPE. 

Delayed it may be for more lives yet, 

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few — 

Much is to learn and much to forget 
Ere the time be come for taking you. 

But the time will come, — at last it Avill. — 

When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, 1 shall sa}', 
In the lower earth, in the years long still, 

That body and soul so pure and gay? 
Why your hair was amber, I shall divine. 

And your mouth of your own geranium's red — 
And Avhat you would do Avith me, in fine, 

In the new life come in the old one's stead. 

I ha\e lived, I shall say, so much since then, 

Given up myself so many times, 
Gained me the gains of various men, 

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes ; 
Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope. 

Either I missed or itself missed me — 
And I want and find you, EveljTi Hope ! 

What is the issue? let us see! 

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while ; 

My heart seemed full as it could hold — 
There was place and to spare for the frank joung smile, 

And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. 
So, hush, — I will give you this leaf to keep — 

See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand. 
Thei-c, that is our secret ! go to sleep ; 

You will wake, and remember, and understand. 



498 




ELIZABETH BAREETT BROWNING 



WINE OF CYPRUS. 



If old Bacchus were the speaker, 

He would tell you, •with a sigh, 
Of the CyjSrus in this beaker 

I am sipping like a fly, — 
Like a fly or gnat on Ida 

At the hour of goblet-pledge, 
By queen Juno brushed aside, a 

Full white arm-sweep, from the edge. 
4'J9 



WINE OF CYPRUS. 

Sooth, the drinking should be ampler. 

When the drink is so divine : 
And some deep-mouthed Greek exampler 

Would become your Cyprus wine ! 
Cyclop's mouth might plunge aright in, 

While his one eye over-leered — 
Not too large Avere mouth of Titan. 

Drinking rivers down his beard. 

Pan might dip his head so deep in. 

That his ears alone pricked out, 
Fauns around him, pressing, leaping. 

Each one pointing to his throat: 
While the Naiads, like Bacchantes 

Wild, with urns thrown out to waste, 
Cry, — " O earth, that thou wouldst grant us 

Springs to keep, of such a taste !" 

But for me, I am not worthy 

After gods and Greeks to driijk; 
And my lips are pf\le and earthy 

To go bathing from this brink. 
Since you heard them speak the last time. 

They have foded from their blooms. 
And the laughter of my pastime 

Has learnt silence at the tombs. 



Ah, my friend! the antique drinkers 

Ci'owned the cup, and croiATied the brow. 
Can I answer the old thinkers 

In the forms they thought of, now? 
Who will fetch from garden-closes 

Some new garlands while I speak, 
That the forehead, crowned with roses, 

May strike scarlet down the cheek? 
500 



ELIZABETH BAKRETT BROWNING. 

Do not mock me ! witli my mortal, 

Suits no wreath again, indeed ! 
I am sad-voiced as the turtle 

"VYliich Anacreon used to feed ; 
Yet as that same bird demurely 

Wet her beak in cup of his, — 
80, Avithout a garland, surely 

I may touch the brim of this. 

Go ! — let others praise the Chian ! — 

This is soft as Muses' string — 
This is tawny as Rhea's lion, 

This is rapid as its spring, — 
Bright as Paphia's eyes e'er met us, 

Light as ever trod her feet! 
And the brown bees of Hymettus 

Make their honey not so sweet. 

Very copious are my praises, 

Though I sip it like a fly! — 
Ah — but, sipping, — times and places 

Change before me suddenly — 
As Ulysses' old libation 

Drew the ghosts from every part, 
So your Cyprus wine, dear Grecian, 

Stirs the Hades of my heart. 

And I think of those long miornings 

Which my thought goes far to seek. 
When, betwixt the folio's turnings. 

Solemn flowed the rhythmic Greek. 
Past the pane, the mountain spreading. 

Swept the sheep-bell's tinkling noise, 
While a girlish voice was reading 

Somewhat low for ai's and oi's. 
501 



WINE OF CYPRUS. 

Then what golden hours were for us ! — 

While we sate together there, 
How the white vests of the chorus 

Seemed to wave up a live air ! 
How the cothurns trod majestic 

Down the deep iambic lines ; 
And the rolling anapaestic 

Curled like vapour over shrines ! 

Oh, our iEschylus, the thunderous! 

How he drove the bolted breath 
Through the cloud, to wedge it ponderous 

In the gnarled oak beneath. 
Oh, our Sophocles, the royal. 

Who was born to monarch's place — 
And who made the whole world loyal. 

Less by kingly power than grace. 

Our Euripides, the human — 

With his droppings of warm tears ; 
And his touches of things common, 

Till they rose to touch the spheres! 
Our Theocritus, our Bion, 

And our Pindar's shining goals! — 
These were cup-bearers undying 

Of the wine that's meant for souls. 



And my Plato, the divine one, — 

If men know the gods aright 
By their motions, as they shine on 

With a glorious trail of light! — 
And your noble Christian bishops. 

Who mouthed grandly the last Greek 
Though the sponges on their hyssops 

Were distent with wdne — too weak. 
502 



ELIZABETH BAREETT BROWNING. 

Yet, yonr Chrysostom, you praised him. 

With his liberal mouth of gold ; 
And your Basil, you upraised him 

To the height of speakers old : 
And we both praised Heliodorus 

For his secret of pure lies ; — 
Who forged first his linked stories 

In the heat of ladies' eyes. 

Do you mind that deed of Ate 

Wliich you bound me to so fast. — 
Reading " De Virginitate," 

From the first line to the last? 
How I said at ending, solemn. 

As I turned and looked at you, 
That St. Simeon on the column 

Had had somewhat less to do? 



For we sometimes gently wrangled ; 

Very gently, be it said, — 
Since our thoughts were disentangled 

By no breaking of the thread I 
And I charged you with extortions 

On the nobler fames of old — 
Ay, and sometimes thought your Porsons 

Stained the purple they would fold. 



For the rest — a mystic moaning 

Kept Cassandra at the gate, 
With wild eyes the vision shone in — 

And wide nostrils scenting fate. 
And Prometheus, bound in passion 

By brute force to the blind stone, 
Showed us looks of invocation 

Turned to ocean and the sun. 
503 



WINE OF CYPRUS. 

And Medea we saw burning 

At her nature's planted stake ; 
And proud Qildipus ftite-scorning 

While the cloud came on to break — 
While the cloud came on slow — slower, 

Till he stood discrowned, resigned! — 
But the reader's voice dropped lower 

When the poet called him blind ! 

Ah, my gossip! you were older, 

And more learned, and a man ! — 
Yet that shadow — the enfolder 

Of your quiet eyelids — ran 
Both our spirits to one level, 

And I turned from hill and lea. 
And the summer-sun's green revel, — 

To your eyes that could not see. 

Now Christ bless you with the one light 

Which goes shining night and day ! 
May the flowers which grow in sunlight 

Shed their fragrance m your way! 
Is it not right to remember 

All your kindness, friend of mine. 
When we two sate in the chamber 

And the poets poured us wine ? 



So, to come back to the drinking 

Of this Cyprus, — it is well — 
But those memories, to my thinking, 

Make a better oenomel ; 
And whoever be the speaker, 

None can murmur Avith a sigh — 
That, in drinking from that beaker, 

I am sipping like a fly. 
504 




KINGSLEY. 

THE THREE FISHERS. 

Three fishers went sailing clown to the west, 

Away to the west as the sun went down ; 

Each thought of the woman who loved him the best, 

And the children stood watching them out of the town : 
For men must work, and women must weep. 
And here's little to earn, and many to keep, 

Chough the hai'bour bar be moanmg. 

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, 
And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down ; 
And they looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, 
While the night rack came rolling up, ragged and brown ; 
But men must work, and women must weep, 
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, 
And the harbour bar be moanino-. 



Three corpses lie out on the shining sands, 
In the morning gleam as the tide went down, 
And the women are weeping and wringing their hands, 

505 



THE SANDS OF DEE. 

For those who Avill never come home to the town. 
But men must work, and women must weep, 
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep, 

And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. 



THE SANDS OF DEE. 

"Oh, Mary, go and call the cattle home. 
And call the cattle home. 
And call the cattle home, 
Across the sands o' Dee ;" 
The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam, 
And all alone went she. 

The creeping tide came up along the sand. 
And o'er and o'er the sand. 
And round and round the sand, 
As far as eye could see ; 
The blinding mist came down and hid the land — 
And never home came she. 

" Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair — 
A tress o' golden hair, 
O' drowned maiden's hair. 
Above the nets at sea? 
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair. 
Among the stakes on Dee." 

They rowed her in across the rolling foam. 
The cruel, crawling foam. 
The cruel, hungry foam, 
To her grave beside the sea : 
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home. 
Across the sands o' Dee. 
.506 



KINGSLEY. 



THE DAY OF THE LORD. 

The Day of the Lord is a,t hand, at hand 1 

Its storms roll up the sky : 
A nation sleeps starving on heaps of gold ; 

All dreamers toss and sigh ; 
The night is darkest before the dawn — 
When the pain is sorest the child is born, 

And the Day of the Lord is at hand. 

Gather you, gather you, angels of God — 

Freedom, and Mercy, and Truth ; 
Come ! for the Earth is grown coward and old — 

Come down and renew us her youth. 
Wisdom, Self-sacrifice, Daring, and Love, 
Haste to the battle-field, stoop from above, 
To the Day of the Lord at hand. 

Gather you, gather you, hounds of hell — 

Famine, and Plague, and War ; 
Idleness, Bigotry, Cant, and Misrule, 

Gather, and fall in the snare ! 
Hirelings and Mammonites, Pedants and Knaves, 
Crawl to the battle-field — sneak to your graves. 
In the Day of the Lord at hand. 

Who would sit down and sigh for a lost age of gold, 

While the Lord of all ages is here? 
True hearts will leap up at the trumpet of God, 

And those who can suffer, can dare. 
Each age of gold was an iron age too, 
And the meekest of saints may find stern work to do. 
In the Day of the Lord at hand. 
507 



AYTOUN. 

THE BURIAL-MARCH OF DUNDEE. 

I. 
Sound the fife, and ciy the slogan — 

Let the pibroch shake the air 
With its wild triumphal music, 

Worthy of the freight we bear. 
Let the ancient hills of Scotland 

Hear once moi'e the battle-song 
Swell Avithin their glens and valleys 

As the clansmen march along ! 
Never from the field of combat, 

Never from the deadly fray, 
Was a nobler trophy carried 

Than we bring Avith us to-day; 
Never since the valiant Douglas 

On his dauntless bosom bore 
Good King Robert's heart — the priceless- 

To our dear Eedeemer's shore! 
Lo ! we bring with us the hero — 

Lo ! we bring the conquering Gramme, 
Crowned as best beseems a victor 

From the altar of his fame ; 
Fresh and bleeding from the battle 

Wlience his spirit took its flight, 
Midst the crashing charge of squadrons, 

And the thunder of the fight! 
Strike, I say, the notes of triumph, 

As we march o'er moor and lea ! 
Is there any here will venture 

To bewail om' dead Dundee ? 
508 



AYTOUN. 

Let the widows of the traitors 

Weep until their eyes are dim! 
Wail ye may full well for Scotland — 

Let none dare to mourn for him ! 
See! above his glorious body 

Lies the royal banner's fold — 
See ! his valiant blood is mingled 

With its crimson and its gold. 
See how calm he looks and stately. 

Like a warrior on his shield, 
Waiting till the flush of morning 

Breaks along the battle-field ! 
See — Oh never more, my comrades, 

Shall we see that falcon eye 
Redden with its inward lightning, 

As the hour of fight drew nigh ! 
Never shall we hear the voice that, 

Clearer than the trumpet's call. 
Bade us strike for King and Counti-y, 

Bade us win the field, or fall ! 



On the heights of Killiecrankie 

Yester-morn our army lay : 
Slowly rose the mist in columns 

From the river's broken way; 
Hoarsely roared the SAVollen torrent, 

And the Pass was wrapped in gloom. 
When the clansmen rose together 

From their lair amidst the broom. 
Then we belted on our tartans, 

And our bonnets down we drew. 
And we felt our broadswords' edges, 

And we proved them to be true ; 
And we prayed the prayer of soldiers, 

And we cried the gathering-cry, 
509 



THE BURIAL-MAECH OF DUNDEE. 

And we clasped the hands of kinsmen, 

And we swore to do or die ! 
Then our leader rode before us 

On his war-horse black as night — 
^Yell the Cameronian rebels 

Knew that charger in the light! — 
And a cry of exultation 

From the bearded warriors rose ; 
For we loved the house of Claver'se, 
And we thought of good Montrose. 
But he raised his hand for silence — 
" Soldiers ! I have sworn a vow : 
Ere the evening star shall glisten 

On Schehallion's lofty brow, 
Either we shall rest in triumph, 

Or another of the Grtemes 
Shall have died in battle-harness 

For his Country and King James ! 
Think upon the Royal Martyi' — 

Think of what his race endure — 
Think on him whom butchers murder'd 

On the field of Magus Muir: — 
By his sacred blood I charge ye, 

By the ruined hearth and shrine — 
By the blighted hopes of Scotland, 

By your injuries and mine — 
Strike this day as if the anvil 

Lay beneath your blows the \Ahile, 
Be they Covenanting traitors. 

Or the brood of false Arg}del 
Strike ! and drive the trembling rebels 

Backwards o'er the stormy Forth : 
Let them tell their pale Convention 
How they fared within the North. 
Let them tell that Highland honour 

Is not to be bought nor sold, 
That we scorn their prince's anger 
510 



AYTOUN. 

As we loathe his foreign gold. 
Strike ! and when the fight is over, 

If you look in vain for me, 
Where the dead are lymg thickest 

Search for him that was Dundee !" 



Loudly then the hills re-echoed 

With our answer to his caU, 
But a deeper echo sounded 

In the bosoms of us all. 
For the lands of wide Breadalbane, 

Not a man who heard him speak 
Would that day have left the battle. 

Burning eye and flushing cheek 
Told the clansmen's fierce emotion, 

And they harder drew their breath; 
For their souls were strong within them, 

Stronger than the grasp of death. 
Soon we heard a challenge-trumpet 

Sounding in the Pass below. 
And the distant tramp of horses, 

And the voices of the foe ; 
Down we crouched amid the bracken. 

Till the Lowland ranks draw near, 
Panting like the hounds in summer, 

AMien they scent the stately deer. 
From the dark defile emerging, 

Next we saw the squadrons come, 
•Leslie's foot and Leven's troopers 

Marching to the tuck of drum ; 
Through the scattered \A'ood of birches, 

O'er the broken ground and heath. 
Wound the long battalion slowly. 

Till they gained the field beneath; 
Then we bounded from our covert. — 
oil 



THE BURIAL-MARCH OF DUNDEE. 

Judge how looked the Saxons then. 
When they saw the rugged mountain 

Start to life with armed men ! 
Like a tempest down the ridges 

Swept the hurricane of steel, 
Rose the slogan of JNIacdonald — 

Flashed the broadsword of Lochiel ! 
Vainly sped the withering volley 

'Mongst the foremost of our band — 
On we poured until we met them, 

Foot to foot, and hand to hand. 
Horse and man went down like drift-wood 

When the floods are black at Yule, 
And their carcasses are Avhirling 

In the Garry's deepest pool. 
Horse and man went down before us — 

Living foe there tarried none 
On the field of Killiecrankie, 

When that stubborn fight was done! 

IV. 

And the evening star was shining 

On Schehallion's distant head, 
When we wiped our bloody broadswords, 

And returned to count the dead. 
There we found him gashed and gory, 

Stretched upon the cumbered plain, 
As he told us where to seek him. 

In the thickest of the .'^lain. 
And a smile was on his visage, 

For within his dying ear 
Pealed the joyful note of triumph, 

And the clansmen's clamorous cheer ; 
So, amidst the battle's thunder. 

Shot, and steel, and scorching flame, 
In the glory of his manhood 

Passed the spirit of the Graeme! 
512 



AYTOUN. 



Open wide the vaults of Atliol, 

Where the bones of heroes rest- — 
Open wide the hallowed portals 

To receive another guest ! 
Last of Scots, and last of freemen — 

Last of all that dauntless race 
Who would rather die unsullied 

Than outlive the land's disgrace! 
O thou lion-hearted warrior ! 

Reck not of the after-time : 
Honour may be deemed dishonour, 

Loyalty be called a crime. 
Sleep in peace with kindred ashes 

Of the noble and the true, 
Hands that never failed their country, 

Hearts that never baseness knew. 
Sleep! — and till the latest trumpet 

Wakes the dead from earth and sea, 
Scotland shall not boast a braver 

Chieftain than our owai Dundee ! 



>13 




DAVIS. 



THE SACK OF BALTIMORE. 



B;iltimore is a sea-port in South Munster, and was plundered by a band of Algerines in the 
night of June 20th, 1G31, under the guidance of Hackett, a Dungarvan fisherman. 



The summer sun is falling soft on Carb'ry's hundred isles, 
The summer sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's rough defiles 
Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird, 
And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard. 

514 



DAVIS. 

The hookers lie upon the beach ; the children cease their play ; 

The gossips leave the little inn ; the households kneel to pray, — 

And full of love, and peace, and rest — its daily labour o'er — 

Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of Baltimore. 

A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there ; 
No sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth, or sea, or air. 
The massive capes and ruined towers seem conscious of the calm ; 
The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm. 
So i^.ill the night, these two long barques, round Dunashad tlin; glide 
Must trust theu' oars, methinks not few, against the ebbing-tide — 
Oh ! some sweet mission of true love must urge them to the shore — 
They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in Baltimore ! 

All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street, 

And these must be the lover's friends, with gently gliding feet — 

A stifled gasp ! a dreamy noise ! — " The roof is in a flame !" 

From out their beds, and to their doors, rush maid, and sire, and dame — 

And meet, upon the threshold stone, the gleaming sabre's fall. 

And o'er each black and bearded face the Avhite or crimson shawl — 

The yell of "Allah" breaks above the prayer, and shriek, and roar — 

Oh, blessed God ! the Al'gerine is lord of Baltimore ! 

Then flung the youth his naked hand against the shearing sword ; 
Then sprung the mother on the brand with which her son was gor'd ; 
Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his gi'and-babes clutching wild ; 
Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled with the child ; 
But see yon pirate strangled lies, and crushed with splashing heel. 
While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his Syrian steel — 
Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers yield their store, 
There's one hearth well avenged in the sack of Baltimore. 

Midsummer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds begin to sing — 
They see not now the milking maids, deserted is the spring ! 
Midsummer day — this gallant rides from distant Bandon's town, — 
These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that skiff from AfFadown : 



THE SACK OF BALTIMORE. 

Tiiej only found the smoking walls, with neighbours' blood besprent, 
And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile they wildly went, — 
Then dash'd to sea, and passed Cape Cleir, and saw five leagues before 
The pirate galleys vanishing that ravaged Baltimore. 

Oh ! some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the steed, — 

This boy will bear a Sheik's chibouk, and that a Bey's jerreed. 

Oh ! some are for the arsenals, by beauteous Dardanelles ; 

And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy dells. 

The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen for the Dey — 

She's safe — she's dead — she stabb'd him in the midst of his Serai. 

And, when to die a death of fire, that noble maid they bore, 

She only smiled — O'Driscoll's child — she thought of Baltiaiore. 

'Tis two long years since sunk the town beneath that bloody band, 
And all aromid its trampled hearths a larger concourse stand, 
Where, high upon a gallows-tree, a yelling wi-etch is seen — 
'Tis Hackett of Dungarvan, — he, who steered the Algerine ! 
He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a passing prayer. 
For he had slain the kith and kin of many a hundred there — 
Some muttered of Mac Morrogh, who had brought the Norman o'er — 
Some curs'd him with Iscariot, that day in Baltimore. 



516 




BULWER LYTTON. 



EVA. 



THE MAIDEN'S HOME. 



A COTTAGE in a peaceful vale ; 

A jasmine round the door ; 
A hill to shelter from the gale ; 

A silver brook before. 
517 



EVA. 

Oil, sweet the jasmine's buds of snow, 

In mornings soft with May ; 
Oh, silver-clear the waves that flow, 

Eeflecting heaven, away ! 
A sweeter bloom to Eva's youth 

Rejoicing Nature gave ; 
And heaven was mirror' d in her truth 

More clear than on the wave. 
Oft to that lone sequester'd place 

My boyish steps would roam, 
There was a look in Eva's face 

That seem'd a smile of home. 
And oft I paused to hear at noon 

A voice that sang for glee : 
Or mark the Avhite neck glancing do\^ai, 

The book upon the knee. 

THE IDIOT BOY. 

Who stands between thee and the sun? — 
A cloud himself, — the Wandering One ! 
A vacant wonder in the eyes, — 

The mind, a blank, unwritten scroll; — 
The light was in the laughing skies, 

And darkness in the Idiot's soul. 
He touch' d the book upon her knee — 

He look'd into her gentle face — 
"Thou dost not tremble, maid, to see 

Poor Arthur by thy dwelling-j)lace. 
I know not why, but Avhere I pass 

The aged tui-n away; 
And if my shadow vex the grass, 

Tlie children cease from play. 
Afi/ only playmates are the wind, 

The blossom on the bough ! 
Why are thy looks so soft and kind? 

Thou dost not tremble — thou !" 
518 



BULWER LYTTON. 

Thougli none were by, slie trembled not, — 
Too meek to wound, too good to fear him ; 

And, as he linger'd on the spot, 

She hid the tears that gush'd to hear him. 

THE YOUNG TEACHES. 

Of wonders on the land and deeps 

She spoke, and glories in the sky — 
The eternal life the Father keeps 

For those, who learn from Him to die. 
So simply did the maiden speak — 

So simply and so earnestly, 
You saw the light begin to break, 

And Soul the Heaven to see ; 
You saw how slowly, day by day. 
The darksome waters caught the ray, 
Confused and broken — come and gone — 

The beams as yet uncertain are, 
But still the billows murmur on, 

And struggle for the star. 

THE STEANGER-SUITOE. 

There came to Eva's maiden home 

A Stranger from a sunnier clime ; 
The lore that Hellas taught to Home, 

The wealth that Wisdom wins from Time, 
"Which ever, in its ebb and tiow. 

Heaves to the seeker on the shore 
The waifs of glorious wrecks below. 

The argosies of yore ; — 
Each gem that in that dark profound 

The Past the Student's soul can find, 
Shone from his thought, and sparkled rounti 

The Enchanted Palace of the Mind. 
How trustful in the leafy June, 

She roved with him the lonely vale ; 
5iy 




How trustful by the fender moon, 

She blush'd to hear a tenderer tale. 
O happy Earth! the dawn revives, 

Day after day, each drooping flower — 
Time to the heart once only gives 

The joyous Morning-hour. 
" To him — oh, wilt thou pledge thy youth, 

For whom the world's false bloom is o'er? 
520 



BULWEE LYTTON. 

My heart shall haven in thy truth, 

And tempt the faithless wave no more.'" 

Her hand lay trembling on his arm, 

Averted glow'd the happy face ; 
A softer hue, a mightier charm. 

Grew mellowing o'er the hour — the place ; 
Along the breathing woodlands moved 

A presence dream-like and divine — 
How sweet to love and be beloved. 

To lean upon a heart that's thine ! 
Silence was o'er the earth and sky — 

By sUence Love is answer'd best — 
Her answer was the downcast eye. 

The rose-cheek pillow'd on his breast. 

What rustles through the moonlit brake? 

Wliat sudden spectre meets their gaze? 
What face, the hues of life forsake, 

Gleams ghost-like in the ghostly rays? 
You might have heard his heart that beat. 

So heaving rose its heavy swell — 
No more the Idiot — at her feet 

The Dai-k One, roused to reason, fell. 
Loosed the last link that thrall'd the thought, 

The lightning broke upon the blind — 
The jealous love the cure had wrought, 

The Heart in waking woke the Mind. 

THE HERMIT. 

Years fly; beneath the yew-tree's shade. 

Thy father's holy dust is kxid ; 

The brook glides on, the jasmine blows ; 

But where art thou, the wandering wife? 
And what the bliss, and what the woes, 

Glass'd in the mirror-sleep of life? 
521 



EVA. 

For whether life may laugh or weep, 
Death the true waking — life the sleep. 
Who tenants thy forsaken cot — 

Who tends thy childhood's favourite flowers- 
"Who wakes, from every haunted spot, 

The Ghosts of buried Hours'? 
'Tis He whose sense was doom'd to borrow 
From thee the Vision and the Sorrow — 
To Avhom the Reason's golden ray. 

In storms that rent the heart, was gi\cn ; 
The peal that burst the clouds away 

Left clear the foce of heaven! 
And wealth was his, and gentle birth, 

A form in fair proportions cast ; 
But lonely still he walk'd the earth — 

The Hermit of the Past. 
It was not love — that dream w^as o'er! 

No stormy grief, no wild emotion ; 
For oft, what once was love of yore. 

The memory soothes into devotion ! 
He bought the cot : — The garden flowers — 

The haunts his Eva's steps had trod, 
Books — thought — beguiled the lonely hours, 

That tlow'd in peaceful waves to God. 

DESERTION. 

She sits, a Statue of Despair, 

In that far land, by that bright sea; 
She sits, a Statue of Despair, 

Whose smile an Angel's seem'd to be. 
She knows it all — the hideous tale — 

The WTong, the perjury, and the shame ; — 
Before the bride had left her veil, 

Another bore the nuptial name. 
The infant woke from feverish rest — 

Its smile she sees, its voice she hears — 




The marble melted from the breast, 
Aiid all the Mother gush'd m tears. 



THE RETURN. 



The cottage in the peaceful vale, 
The jasmine round the door, 

The hill still shelters from the gale, 
The brook still glides before. 



523 



EVA. 

Without the porch, one summer noon. 

The Hermit-dweller see! 
In musing silence bending down, 

The book upon his knee. 
Who stands between thee and the sun"? — 
A cloud herself, — the Wand'ruig One ! — 
A vacant sadness in the eyes. 

The mind a razed, defeatured scroll ; 
The light is in the laughing skies, 

And darkness, Eva, in thy soul ! 
Yet still the native instinct stirr'd 

The darkness of the breast — 
She flies, as flies the wounded bird 

Unto the distant nest; 
O'er hill and waste, from land to land, 

Her heart the faithful instinct bore; 
And there, behold the Wanderer stand 

Beside her Childhood's Home once more! 

LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 

When earth is fair, and Avinds are still. 
When sunset gilds the Avestern hill, 
Oft by the porch, with jasmine sweet, 
Or by the brook, Avith noiseless feet. 

Two silent forms are seen ; 
So silent they — the place so lone — 
They seem like souls, when life is gone, 

That haunt Avliere life has been : 
And his to watch, as in the past 

Her soul had Avatch'd his soul. 
Alas! her darkness Avaits the last, 

The grave the only goal! 
It is not AA'hat the leech can cure — 

An erring chord, a jarring madness : 
A calm so deep, it must endure — 

So deep, thou scarce canst call it sadness; 
524 



BULWER LYTTOX. 

A summer niglit, whose shadow falls 

On silent hearths m rum'd halls. 

Yet, through the gloom, she seem'd to feel 

His presence like a happier air; 
Close by his side she loved to steal. 

As if no ill could harm her there 1 
And when her looks his own would seek, 

Some memory seem'd to wake the sigh, 
Strive for kind words she could not speak, 

And bless him in the tearful eye. 

O sweet the jasmine's buds of snow. 

In mornings soft with May, 
And silver-clear the Avaves that Rov,' 

To shoreless deeps away ; 
But heavenward from the faithful heart 

A sweeter incense stole ; — 
The onward waves their source desert, 

But Soul returns to Soul! 



525 




PROCTER. 



THE HISTORY OF A LIFE. 



Day cIaT\Tied : — Within a curtained room, 
Filled to faintness with perfume, 
A lady lay at point of doom. 



526 



PROCTER. 

Day closed : — A Child had seen the light ; 
But for the lady, fair and bright, 
She rested in undreaming night. 

Spring rose: — The lady's grave was green; 
And near it oftentimes was seen 
A gentle Boy, with thoughtful mien. 

Years fled : — He wore a manly face. 
And struggled m the world's rough race, 
And won, at last, a lofty place. 

And then — he died! Behold, before ye, 

Humanity's poor sum and story; 

Life — Death, — and all that is of Glory. 



WITHIN AND WITHOUT 



WITHOUT. 

The winds are bitter ; the skies are wild ; 

From the roof comes plunging the drowning rain 
Without, — in tatters, the world's poor child 

Sobbeth abroad her grief, her pain ! 
No one heareth her, no one heedcth her: 

But Hunger, her friend, with his bony hand 
Grasps her throat, whispering huskily — 

"What dost TJiou in a Christian land?" 
527 




The skies are mid, and the blast is cold; 

Yet riot and luxury brawl within : 
Slaves are waiting, in silver and gold, 

Waiting the nod of a child of sin. 
The fire is crackling, wine is bubbling 

Up in each glass to its beaded brim : 
The jesters are laughing, the parasites quaffing 

''Happiness," — "honour," — and all for him! 
528 



PROCTER. 



WITHOUT. 



She who is slain in the Avinter weather, 

Ah ! she once had a village fame ; 
Listened to love on the moonlit heather ; 

Had gentleness — vanity — maiden shame ; 
Noiv, her allies are the tempest howling ; 

Prodigals' curses ; self-disdain ; 
Poverty; misery: Well, — no matter; 

There is an end unto every pain ! 



He who yon lordly feast enjoy eth, 

He who doth rest on his couch of down, 
He it was, who threw the forsaken 

Under the feet of the trampling town : 
Liar — betrayer, — false as cruel, 

What is the doom for his dastard sin ? 
His peers, they scorn? — high dames, they shun liim ? 

— Unbar yon palace, and gaze within. 

There, — yet his deeds are all trumpet-sounded. 

There, upon silken seats recline 
Maidens as fail* as the summer morning. 

Watching him rise from the sparkling wine. 
Mothers all profter their stainless daughters ; 

Men of high honour salute him "Friend;" 
Skies! oh, where are your cleansing waters? 

World ! oh, where do thy wonders end ? 



529 




ATHERSTONE. 



BATTLE SCENES. 



O'er <all the plain tli' Assyrian camp-fires now 
Blaze high ; and with the darkness a drear red 
Strangely commingle. Like a burning gulf, 
Sleeping till stiri'M by winds ; the heaving mass 
Of warriors at the mountain's foot appears ; 
Breast-plates, and shields, and helms, and gonfalons. 
Glow blood-red here and there ; but doubly dark 
Elsewhere the night. Now, toward (he hills all haste 
If Medes alone, or with Assyrians mixed, 
I cannot know ; but rapid is the speed. 
The light increases : up the mountain's side, 
530 



ATHERSTONE. 

In the red darkness faintly I discern 
The slumbering myriads ; and toward its fool 
Onward they come ; like billows of dark fire. 
But farther off, in one bright blaze, the camp 
Shines out : a countless multitude I see, 
In flaming armour pouring o'er the plain. 
Like ocean glittering 'neath the ruddy sun, 
The wide field flashes ; like the ocean's roar 
Their clamours rise. 

Among the trees a crash 
I hear, — a heaving of the branches. Lights 
Are thickening near the hill. Ha ! now I see 
They rend the boughs for torches. In his hand 
Each soldier bears a branch of blazing pine. 
They speed toward the heights: they shake the torcli : 
They wave the sword: like running flame they seeni. 
Now up the steep they urge. A cloud of darts 
And arrows from the Medcs upon them pours, — 
A fiery cloud ; and stones are hurled — and spears ; — 
Yet upward still they come. The watch-fires now 
Are flaming on the hills : distinctly gleams 
The battle forth. Their torches they cast down ; 
Not needed now. Ha ! by his stai'-like helm, 
Assyria's king appears. He shouts : he flies : 
He points towards the rocks ; — he waves them on. 
A warrior meets him : sword with sword they figli t — 
Arabia's monarch, sure. — But both are lost, — 
The waves of fight roll o'er them — 



Meantime, along the sapphire bridge of heaven, 
Fai", far beyond the canopy of cloud 
That mantled earth, the day-god's lightning steeds 
Through the pure ether rapt his chariot-wheels, 
Sounding harmonious thunder. To the height 
They had ascended ; and the steep decline 
Half-way had measured ; yet the hard-fought field 
5^1 



BATTLE SCENES. 

Still was contested ; for, like men resolved 

On that one day to peril all to come — 

To die, perchance, but never to submit — 

The Assyrian captains strove ; and, Avith like fire, 

Their soldiers' hearts inflamed. Aid too had come — 

Chariots, and horse, and foot; who, when the scale. 

Charged with Assyria's doom, was sinking fast, 

Twice had its fall arrested. Once agam. 

When seemed that utter ruin hovered nigh. 

The chariot of Assyria's beauteous queen 

From rank to rank flew on : and, as they saw. 

The warriors' breasts, as with new soul infused. 

Like beacons freshly kindled, burst at once 

Into intensest flame. Unhelmed, unarmed. 

Her ebon hair loose flying in the wind, 

She raised aloft her arms, her voice uplift. 

And bade them on to glory. As the star 

Of morning, while the sun yet sleeps below. 

And the grey mist is on the dewy earth. 

Her face was pale and radiant. Like a shape 

From heaven descended, and to mortal harm 

Lnpassive, gloriously and fearlessly 

Through the death-laden air she flew along. 

Her spirit fired the host; with deafening shouts 

Onward they bore ; and, for a time, the Medes 

Compelled, though slowly, backward. 



532 



MARY HO WITT. 



THE BALLAD OF RICHARD BURNELL. 



Part I. 

Feom his bed rose Eichard Burnell 
At the early dawn of day, 

Ere the bells of London city 
Welcomed in the morn of May. 

Early on that bright May morning 
Eose the young man from his bed. 

He, the happiest man in London, 
And thus to himself he said : — 



" ' When the men and maids are dancing. 
And the folk are mad with glee, 

In the Temple's shady gardens 
Let me walk and talk with thee !' 



"Thus my Alice spake last even, 
Thus with trembling lips she spake, 

And those blissful words have kept me 
Through the live-long night awake. 



"'Tis a joy beyond expression, 
When we first, in truth, perceive 

That the love we long have cherished 
Will not our fond hearts deceive ! 




" Never dared I to confess it — 
Deeds of homage spoke instead ; 

True love is its own revealer, 
She must know it ! oft I said. 

" All my words, and all my actions, 
But one meaning could impart ; 

Love can love's least sign interpret, 
And she reads my inmost heart. 



"And her good old merchant father,- 
Father he has been to me — 

Saw the love grow up between us. 
Saw — and was well pleased to sec. 
534 



MAEY HOWITT. 

"Seven years I truly served him, 
Now my time is at an end ; 

Master is he now no longer : 
Father will be — has been friend. 



"I was left betimes an orphan, 
Heir unto great merchant-wealth. 

But the iron rule of kinsfolk 

Dimmed my youth, and sapped my health. 

"Death had been my early portion 
Had not my good guardian come ; 

He, the father of my Alice, 
And conveyed me to his home. 

"Here began a new existence, — 
Then how new the love of friends ! 

And for all the child's afflictions 
Each one strove to make amends. 

"Late my spring-time came, but quickly 

Youth's rejoicing currents run, 
And my inner life unfolded 

Like a flower before the sun. 



" Hopes, and aims, and aspirations 
Grew within the growing boy ; 

Life had new interpretation ; 

Manhood brought increase of joy. 

" Li and over all Avas Alice, 
Life-infusing, like the spring ; 

My soul's soul ! even joy without her 
Was a poor and barren thing ! 



THE BALLAD OF EICHAKD BURNELL. 

" And she spoke last eve at parting, 
'When the folk are mad with glee, 

In the Temple's pleasant gardens 
Let me walk and talk with thee !' 

"As she spoke, her sweet voice trembled. 
Love such tender tones can teach ! 

And those words have kept me waking, 
And the manner of her speech! 

"For such manner has deep meaning," 
Said young Burnell, blithe and gay; — 

And the bells of London city 
Pealed a welcome to the May. 



pakt n. 



Whilst the folk were mad Avith pleasure, 
'Neath the elm-tree's vernal shade, 

In the Temple's quiet gardens 

Walked the young man and tjie maid. 

On his ai*ra her hand was resting, 
And her eyes were on the ground ; 

She was speaking, he was silent ; 
Not a word his tongue had found. 

« 
"Friend beloved," she thus addressed him, 

"I have faith and hope in thee! 
Thou canst do what no one else can — 
Thou canst be a friend to me! 
536 



MARY HOWITT. 

•' Richard, we have lived togetlier 
All these years of happy youth ; 

Have, as sister and as brother, 
Lived in confidence and truth. 

•'Thou from me hast hid no feelings, 
Thy vi^hole heart to me is known ; 

I — I only have kept from thee 
One dear, little thought alone. 

"Have I wronged thee in so domg? 

Then forgive me! But give ear; 
'Tis to bare my heart before thee 

That I now am with thee here. 

"Well thou know'st my father loves thee; 

'Tis his wish that we should wed, — 
I shame not to speak thus frankly — 

Wish, or ivill more justly said. 

"But this cannot be, my brother, 
Cannot be — 'twere nature's wrong! — 

I have said so to my father; 

But thou know'st his will is strong." 

Not a word spake Eichard Burnell; 

Not a word came to his lips ; 
Like one tranced he stood and listened; 

Life to him was in eclipse. 

In a lower tone she murmured. 
Murmured like a brooding dove, 

"Know thou, — Leonard Woodvil loves me, 
And — that he has won my love." 



THE BALLAD OF RICHARD BURNELL. 

— Came a pause. The words she uttered 
Seemed to turn him into stone ; 

Pale he stood and mute beside her. 
And with blushes she went on. 

••This is known unto my father; — 
Leonard is well known to thee, 

Thou hast praised him, praised him often- 
Oh, how dear such praise to me ! 

'•But my father, stern and steadfast, 
Will not list to Leonard's prayer; — 

And 'tis only thou canst move him, — 
Only thou so much canst dare. 

"Tell my father firmly, freely, 
That we only love each other-^ 

'Tis the truth, thou know'st it, Eichard,— 
As a sister and a brother! 



"Tell my father, if Ave wedded, 
Thou and I, it would be guilt! 

Thus it is that thou canst aid us — 
And thou wilt — I know thou wilt! 

"Yes, 'tis thus that thou must aid us, 
And thou Avilt ! I say no more ! — 

We've been friends, but this will make us 
Better friends than heretofore !" 

Yet some moments he was silent; 

His good heart was well-nigh broke; 
She was blinded to his anguish ; — 

And "I Avill!" at length he spoke. 

538 



MARY HOWITT. 



Part III. 



They were wedded. 'Twas a wedding 

That had far and high renown, 
jVnd from morning until even 

Rang the bells of London town. 

Time went on: the good old merchant 

Wore a cloud upon his brow: 
"Wherefore thus?" his friends addressed him, 

" No man should be blithe as thou !" 



" In my old age I am lonely,." 

Said the merchant, " she is gone ;- 

And young Burnell, he I nurtured, 
lie who was to me a son ; 



" He has left me ! — I'm deserted — 
E'en an old man feels such woe ! 

Twas but natural she should marry. 
But he should not have served me so. 

" 'Twas not that which I expected ! 

He was very dear to me, — 
And I thought no London merchant 

Would have stood as high as he ! 

" He grew very strange and moody, 
What the cause I cannot say ; — 

And he left me when my daughter. 
My poor Alice, went away! 
539 




"I had been a fatlier to him, 

He to me was like a son : 
Young folks should have more reflection ,- 

'Twas what / could not have done ! 



" True, he writes me duteous letters ; 

Calls me father, tells me all 
That in foreign parts is doing, — 

But young people write so small, 



540 



MAEY HOWITT. 

"That I'm often forced to leave them, 
Pleasant letters though they be, 

Until Alice comes from Richmond, 
Then she reads them out to me. 

"Alice fain would have me with her; 

Leonard well deserves my praise — 
But he's not my Richard Burnell, 

Knows not my old wants and ways ! 

"No; my friends, I'll not deny it. 

It has cut me to the heart, 
That the son of my adoption 

Thus has played a cruel part!" 

So the merchant mourned and murmured 
And all foreign charms unheedmg, 

Dwelt the lonely Richard Burnell, 
With his bruised heart still bleeding. 



Part IV. 



Time went on, and in the spring-tide. 
When the bii'ds began to build, 

And the heart of all creation 
With a vast delight was filled, 

Came a letter unto Alice — 

Then a babe lay on her breast— 

'Twas the first which Richard Burnell 
Unto Alice had addressed. 
541 



THE BALLAD OF KICHAED BUKNELL. 

Few the words which it contained, 
But each word was like a sigh ; 

"I am sick and very lonely; — 
Let me see thee ere I die! 

" In this time of tribulation 
Thou wilt be a friend to me : 

Therefore in the Temple Gardens 
Let me once more speak with thee." 

Once more in the Temple Gardens 
Sat they 'neath the bright blue sky, 

With the leafage thick around them, 
And the river rolling by. 

Pale and weak was Richard Burnell, 
Gone all merely outward grace, 

Yet the stamp of meek endurance 
Gave sad beauty to his face. 

Silent by his side sat Alice, 

Now no word her tongue could speak, 
All her soul was steeped in pity. 

And large tears were on her cheek. 

Burnell spake: "Within these Gardens 
Thy commands on me were laid, 

And, although my heart was breaking, 
Yet were those commands obeyed. 

" What I suffered no one knoweth. 
Nor shall know, I proudly said, 

And, when grew the grief too mighty, 
Then — there was no help — I fled. 
r,\2 



MARY HOWITT. 

"Yes, I loved thee, long had loved thee. 

And alone the God above, 
He, who at that time sustained me. 

Knows the measure of my love ! 

" Do not let these words displease thee ; 

Life's sore battle soon will cease ; 
I have fallen amid the conflict, 

But within my soul is peace. 

" It has been a fiery trial, 
But the fiercest pang is past ; 

Once more I am come amongst you— 
Oh ! stand by me at" the last ! 

" Leonard will at times come to me, 
And thy father. I will try 

To be cheerful in his presence, 
As I was in days gone by. 

" Bitter has it been to leave him ; 

But in all my heart's distress. 
The great anguish which consumed me 

Seemed to swallow up the less. 

"Let me go! my soul is wearied, 
No fond heart of me has need. 

Life has no more duties for me; — 
I am but a broken reed ! 

" Let me go, ere courage faileth, 
Gazing, gazing thus on thee ! — 

But in life's last awful moment, 
Alice! thou wilt stand by me!" 

bio 



THE BALLAD OF EICHARD BURNELL. 

From her seat rose Alice AVoodvil. 

And in steadfast tones began, 
Like a strong consoling angel, 

To address the dying man. 

"Not in death alone, my brother. 

Would I aid thee in the strife ; 
I would fain be thy sustaiuer 

In the fiercer fight of life. 

" With the help of God, thy spkit 
Shall not in this conflict yield ; 

Prayer, the key which opens heaven. 
Is the Christian's sword and shield. 



"God will aid thee! We will hold thee 
By our love ! — thou shalt not go I — 

And from out thy wounded spirit, 
We will pluck the thorns of woe. 

" Say not life has no more duties 

Which can claim thee ! Where are then 

All the sinners ; the neglected ; 
All the weeping sons of men ? 

"Ah, my friend, hast thou forgotten 
All our dreams of early days? 

How we would instruct poor children. 
How Ave would the fallen raise I 

"God has not to me permitted 
Such great work of human love ; 

He has marked me out a lower 
Path of duty where to move. 
544 



MAEY HOWITT. 

•' But to thee, His chosen servant. 

Is this higher lot allowed ; 
He has brought thee through deep waters, 

Through the furnace, through the cloud 

•' He has made of thee a mourner, 
Like the Christ, that thou may'st rise 

To a purer height of glory, 
Through the pangs of sacrifice! 

•"Tis alone of His appointing, 

That thy feet on thorns have trod ; 

Suffering, woe, renunciation, 
Only brmg us nearer God. 

"And when nearest Him, then largest 
The enfranchised heart's embrace : — 

It was Christ, the Man rejected, 
Who redeemed the human race. 



" Say not, then, thou hast no duties ; — 
Friendless outcasts on thee call, 

And the sick and the afflicted. 
And the children, more than all. 

■' Oh, my friend, rise up, and follow 
Where the hand of God shall lead ; 

He has brought thee through affliction, 
But to fit thee for His need!" 

Thus she spoke ; and as from midniglit 
Springs the opal-tinted morn, 

So, within his dreary spirit, 
A new day of life was born. 
545 




Strength sublime may rise from weakness. 
Groans be turned to songs of praise, 

Nor are life's divinest labours 
Only told by length of days. 



Young he died: but deeds of mercy 
Beautitied his life's short span, 

And he left his worldly substance 
To complete what he began. 
54G 



ARNOLD. 



TO A GIPSY CHILD BY THE SHORE. 

DOUGLAS, ISLE OF MAN. 

Who taught this pleaduig to unpractis'd eyes? 

Who hid such import in an infant's gloom ? 
Who lent thee, chiki, this meditative guise? 

Wliat clouds thy forehead, and fore-dates thy doom? 

Lo ! sails that gleam a moment and are gone ; 

The swinging waters, and the cluster' d pier. 
Not idly Earth and Ocean labour on, 

Nor idly do these sea-birds hover near. 

But thou whom superfluity of joy 

Wafts not from thine ow^l thoughts, nor longings xinn. 
Nor weariness, the full fed soul's annoy; 

Remaining in thy hunger and thy pain : 

Thou, drugging pain by patience ; half averse 

From thine own mother's breast, that knows not thee ; 

With eyes that sought thine eyes thou didst converse, 
And that soul-searching vision fell on me. 

Glooms that go deep as thine I have not known: 
Moods of fantastic sadness, nothing w^ortli. 

Thy sorrow and thy calmness are thine own : 
Glooms that enhance and glorify this earth. 

What mood wears like complexion to thy woe? — 
His, who in mountain glens, at noon of day, 

Sits rapt, and hears the battle break below ? — 
Ah ! tliine was not the shelter, but the fray. 

547 



TO A GIPSY CHILD BY THE SHORE. 

What exile's, changing bitter thoughts with glad? 

What seraph's, in some alien planet born? — 
No exile's dream was ever half so sad. 

Nor any angel's sorrow so forlorn. 

Is the calm thine of stoic souls, who weigh 
Life well, and find it wanting, nor deplore : 

But in disdainful silence turn away. 

Stand mute, self-centred, stern, and dream no more ? 

Or do I wait, to hear some gray-hair'd king 

Unravel all his many-colour'd lore : 
Whose mind hath kno-\vn all arts of governing, 

IMus'd much, lov'd life a little, loath'd it more? 

Down the pale cheek long lines of shadow slope, 

Which years, and curious thought, and suffering give — 

Thou hast foreknown the vanity of hope, 
Foreseen thy harvest — ^yet proceed'st to live. 

() meek anticipant of that sure pain 

Whose sureness gray-hair'd scholars hardly learn ! 
What wonder shall time breed, to swell thy strain ? 

What heavens, what earth, what suns shalt thou discern? 

Ere the long night Avhose stillness brooks no star, 

Match that funereal aspect with her pall, 
I think, thou wUt have fathom'd life too far. 

Have kno-\\Ti too much — or else forgotten all. 

The Guide of our dark steps a triple veil 
Betwixt our senses and our sorrow keeps : 

Hath so\\Ti Avith cloudless passages the tale 
Of grief, and eas'd us with a thousand sleeps. 

Ah! not the nectarous poppy lovers use. 

Not daily labour's dull, Lethaean spring, 
Oblivion in lost angels can infuse 

Of the soil'd glory, and the trailing wing; 

548 



ARNOLD. 

And though thou glean, what strenuous gleaners may. 
In the throng' cl tielcls where wmning comes by strife ; 

And though the just sun gild, as all men pray, 
Some reaches of thy storm-vext stream of life ; 

Though that blank sunshine blind thee ; though the cloud 
That sever' d the world's march and thine is gone : 

Though ease dulls grace, and Wisdom be too proud 
To halve a lodging that was all her own : 

Once ere the day decline, thou shalt discern. 
Oh once, ere night, in thy success, thy chain : 

Ere the long evening close, thou shalt return, 
And wear this majesty of grief again. 



r,id 



BENNETT. 



BABY'S SHOES. 

On, those little, those little blue shoes! 

Those shoes that no little feet use. 
Oh, the price were high 
That those shoes would buy, 

Those little blue unused shoes! 

For they hold the small shape of feet 
That no more their mother's eyes meet, 

That, by God's good will, 

Years since grew still, 
And ceased from their totter so sweet. 

And oh, since that baby slept, 

So hushed, how the mother has kept, 

"With a tearful pleasure. 

That little dear treasure, 
And over them thought and Avept ! 

For they mind her for evermore 
Of a patter along the floor; 

And blue eyes she sees 

Look up from her knees 
With the look that in life they wore. 

As they lie before her there, 
There babbles from chaii- to chair 
A little sweet face 
That's a gleam in the place, 
^Yith its little gold curls of hair. 
550 



BENNETT. 



Then, oh, wonder not that her heurt 
From all else would rather part 

Than those tiny blue shoes 

That no little feet use, 
And whose sight makes such fond tears start ! 



LILIAN'S EPITAPH. 

Thou hast been and thou hast fled, 

Kose, sweet rose ; 
IJudded, flushed, and, ah! art dead, 

Eose, sweet rose; 
Yet oblivion may not kill 
Dreams of thee, our thoughts that fill, 
And for us thovi'rt blooming still, 

Rose, sweet rose. 

Breathing rose, nor might'st thou stay, 

Eose, sweet rose ; 
Tliou too, woe! hast passed away, 

Eose, sweet rose ; 
Yet though death had heart to sever 
Life and thee, thou'rt from us never; 
No, in thought thou'rt with us ever, 

Eose, sweet rose. 



)51 



ALEXANDER SMITH. 



SCENE — THE BANKS OF A EIVER. 



'Tis that loveliest stream. 



I've learned by heart its sweet and devious course 
By frequent tracing, as a lover learns 
The features of his best beloved's face. 
In memory it runs, a shining thread, 
With sunsets strung upon it thick, like pearls. 
From yonder trees I've seen the western sky 
All washed with fire, while, in the midst, the sun 
Beat like a pulse, welling at ev'ry beat 
A spreading wave of light. Where yonder church 
Stands up to heaven, as if to intercede 
For sinful hamlets scatter'd at its feet, 
I saw the dreariest sight. The sun was down. 
And all the west was paved with sullen fire. 
I cried, " Behold ! the barren beach of hell 
At ebb tide." The ghost of one bright hour 
Comes from its grave and stands before me now. 
'Twas at the close of a long summer day, 
As we were sitting on yon grassy slope. 
The sunset hung before us like a dream 
That shakes a demon in his fiery lair ; 
The clouds were standing round the setting sun 
Like gaping caves, fantastic pinnacles, 
Citadels throbbing in their own fierce light, ' 
Tall spires that came and went like spires of flame, 
Cliffs quivering with fire-snow, and peaks 
Of piled gorgeousness, and rocks of fire 
A-tilt and poised, bare beaches, crimson seas — 
All these were huddled in that dreadful west, 
All shook and trembled in unsteadfast light, 
552 




And from the centre blazed the angry sun, 
Stern as the unlash'd eye of God a-glare 
O'er evenuig city with its boom of sin. 
I do remember, as we journeyed home, 
(That dreadful sunset burnt into our brains,) 
With what a soothing came the naked moon. 
She, like a swimmer who has found his ground, 
Came rippling up a silver strand of cloud, 
553 



PICTURES. 

And plunged from the other side into the night. 

I and that friend, the feeder of my soul, 

Did Avander up and down tlicse banks for years, 

Talking of blessed hopes and holy faiths, 

How sm and Aveeping all should pass away 

In the calm sunsliine of the earth's old age. 

Breezes are blowing in old Chaucer's verse ; 

'Twas here we drank them. Here for hours we hung 

O'er the fine pants and trembles of a line. 

Oft, standing on a hill's green head, we felt 

Breezes of love, and joy, and melody. 

Blow through us, as the winds blow through the sky. 

Oft with our souls in our eyes all day we fed 

On summer landscapes, silver-veined with streams, 

O'er which the air hung silent in its joy; 

With a great city lying in its smoke, 

A monster sleeping in its own thick breath ; 

And surgy plains of wheat, and ancient woods 

In the calm evenings cawed by clouds of rooks, 

Acres of moss, and long black strips of firs, 

And sweet cots dropt in green, where children played, 

To us unheard ; till, gradual, all was lost 

In distance-liaze to a blue rim of hills, 

Upon whose heads came down the closing sky. 



PICTURES. 

TiiK lark is singing in the blinding sky, 
Hedges are w'hite with May. The bridegroom sea 
Is toying with the shore, his wedded bride, 
And, in the fulness of his marriage joy, 
He decorates her tawny brow A^ith shells. 




Retires a space, to see lio\v fair she looks. 
Then, proud, runs up to kiss her. All is fair- 
All glad, from grass to sun 
5o"> 



PICTURES. 



— One nymph slumbering lay, 
A sweet dream 'neath her eyelids, her white limb.-^ 
Sinking full softly in the violets dim; 
When timbrelled troops rushed past with branches gi'een- 
One in each fountain, riched with golden sands, 
With her delicious face a moment seen, 
And limbs faint gleaming through their watery veil. 



— A grim old king. 
Whose blood leapt madly when the trumpets brayed 
To joyous battle 'mid a storm of steeds. 
Won a rich kingdom on a battle-day ; 
But m the sunset he was ebbing fast. 
Ringed by his weeping lords. His left hand held 
His white steed, to the belly splashed with blood, 
That seemed to mourn him with his drooping head ; 
His right, his broken brand ; and in his ear 
His old victorious banners flap the winds. 
•He called his faithful herald to his side — 
"Go! tell the dead I come!" With a proud smile. 
The warrior with a stab let out his soul, 
Which fled, and shrieked through all the other world, 
"Ye dead! My master comes!" And there was pause 
Till the great Shade should enter. 



or^G 




BAILEY. 



A SUMMER NIGHT. 



The last higli upward slant of sun on the trees, 
Like a dead soldier's sword upon his pall, 
Seems to console earth for the glorj gone. 
Oh ! I could weep to see the day die thus ; 
The death -bed of a day, how beautiful! 
Linger, ye clouds, one moment longer there ; 
Fan it to slumber Avitli your golden wings ! 
Like pious prayers, ye seem to soothe its end. 
5'. 7 



WORDS. 

It will wake no more till the all-revealing day ; 

When, like a drop of water, greatened bright 

Into a shadow, it shall show itself 

With all its little tyrannous things and deeds, 

LTnhomed and clear. The day hath gone to God,- 

Straight — like an infant's spirit, or a mocked 

And mourning messenger of Grace to man. 

Would it had taken me too on its wing ! 

JNIy end is nigh. Would I might die outright,— 

So o'er the sunset clouds of red mortality 

The emerald hues of deathlessness diffuse 

Their glory, heightening to the starry blue 

Of all embosoming eternity. 

Who that hath lain lonely on a high laill, 

In the imperious silence of full noon, 

With nothing but the clear dark sky about him, 

Like God's Hand laid upon the head of earth, — 

But hath expected that some natural spirit 

Should start out of the universal air, 

And, gathering his cloudy robe around him. 

As one in act to teach mysterious things, 

Explain that he must die? 



WORDS. 



The poet in his Avork reflects his soul, 
As some lone nymph, beside a woodland well. 
Whose clear white limbs, like animated light. 
Make glad the heart and sanctify the sight, 
The soft and shadowy miracle of her form. 
The bard's aim is to give us thoughts ; his art 
Lieth in giving them as bright as may be. 
558 



PHILIP JAMES BAILEY. 

Words are the motes of thouglit, and nothing more. 
Words are like sea-shells on the shore ; tliey shoAv 
Where the mind ends, and not how far it has been. 
Let every thought, too, soldier-like, be stripped, 
And roughly looked over. The dress of words, 
Like to the Roman girl's enticing garb. 
Should let the play of limb be seen through it, 
And the round rising form. A mist of words, 
Like halos round the moon, though they enlarge 
The seeming size of thoughts, make the light less 
Doubly. It is the thought Avrit down we want. 
Not its effect, — not likenesses of likenesses. 
And such descriptions are not, more than gloves 
Instead of hands to shake, enough for us. 
As in the good the fair; simplicity 
Is Nature's first step, and the last of Art. 



PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 

Her form was all humanity. 

Her soul all God's ; in spirit and in form. 
Like fair. Her cheek had the pale pearly pink 
Of sea-shells, the world's SAveetest tint, as though 
She lived, one half might deem, on roses sopped 
In silver dew ; she spake as Avith the A'oice 
Of spheral harmony, AA'hich greets the soul 
When at the hour of death the saved one knows 
His sister angels near ; her eye Avas as 
The golden fane the setting -sun doth just 
Imblaze; Avhich shows, till Heaven comes doAvn again- 
All other lights but grades of gloom; her dark, 
Long rolling locks AA^ere as a stream the slave 
Might search for gold, and, searching, find. 
559 



fFST/'l ^Z=Z, 




KNOWLES. 
THE APPEAL AND THE REPROOF. 

.TULIA AND MASTER AVALTER. 

Walter. AVhat! run the waves so liigli "? Not ready yet! 
Your lord Avill soon be here ! . The suests collect. 



Julia. Show me some way to 'scape these nuptials ! Do it ! 
Some opening for avoidance or escape, — 
Or to thy charge I'll lay a broken heart ! 

5G0 



KNOWLES. 

It may be, broken vows, and blasted honour ! 
Or else a mind distraught ! 

Walter. What's this ? 

JuHa. The strait 

I'm fallen into my patience cannot bear! 
It frights my reason — Avarps my sense of virtue I 
Religion! — changes me into a thing 
I look at with abhorring! 

Walter. Listen to me. 

Julia. Listen to me, and heed me ! If this contract 
Thou hold'st me to — abide thou the result ! 
Answer to Heaven for what I suffer ! — act ! 
Prepare thyself for such calamity 
To fall on me, and those whose evil stars 
Have link'd them with me, as no past mishap, 
However rare, and marvellously sad, 
Can parallel ! lay thy account to live 
A smileless life, die an mipitied death — 
Abhorr'd, abandon' d of thy kind, — as one 
Who had the guarding of a young maid's peace, — 
Look'd on and saw her rashly peril it ; 
And when she saw her danger, and confess'd 
Her fault, compell'd her to complete her ruin ! 

Walter. Hast done? 

Julia. Another moment, and I have. 

Be warn'd! Beware how you abandon me 
To myself ! I'm young, rash, inexperienced ! tempted 
By most insufferable misery ! 
Bold, desperate, and reckless ! Thou hast age, 
Experience, wisdom, and collectedness, — 

561 \ 



THE APPEAL AND THE REPROOF. 

E'ower, freedom, — everything that I have not, 

Yet want, as none e'er wanted ! Thou canst save me, 

Thou ought'st! thou must! I tell thee, at his feet 

I'll fall a corse — ere mount his bridal bed ! 

So choose betwixt my rescue and my grave ; — 

And quickly too ! The hour of sacrifice 

Is near ! Anon the immolating priest 

Will summon me ! Devise some speedy means 

To cheat the altar of its victim. Do it! 

Nor leave the task to me ! 

Walter. Hast done? 

Julia. I have. 

Walter. Then list to me — and silently, if not 
With patience. — [^Brings chairs for himself and her. 

How I watch'd thee from thy childhood, 
I'll not recall to thee. Thy father's wisdom — 
Whose humble instrument I was — directed 
Your nonage should be pass'd in privacy. 
From your apt mind, that far outstripp'd your years, 
Fearing the taint of an infected world ; — 
For in the rich ground, weeds, once taking root. 
Grow strong as flowers. He might be right or wrong ! 
I thought him right ; and therefore did his bidding. 
Most certainly he loved you — so did I ; 
Ay ! well as I had been myself your father ! 

[Ilis hand is resting upon his knee. Julia attempts to take it. 
lie withdraws it; looks at her. She hangs her head. 

"Well ; you may take my hand ! I need not say 
How fast you grew in knowledge, and in goodness, — 
That hope could scarce enjoy its golden' dreams. 
So soon fulfilment realized them all ! 

562 



KNOWLES. 

Enough. You came to womanhood. Your heart 

Pure as the leaf of the consummate bud, 

That's new unfolded by the smiling sun, 

And ne'er knew blight nor canker! When a good woman 

Is fitly mated, she grows doubly good, 

How good soe'er before ! I found the man 

I thought a match for thee ; and, soon as found, 

Proposed him to thee. 'Twas your father's will, 

Occasion offering, you should be married 

Soon as you reach'd to womanhood. You liked 

My choice — accepted him. We came to town ; 

Where, by important matters, summon'd thence, 

I left you, an affianced bride ! 

Julia. You did ! 

You did! 

Walter. Nay, check thy tears I Let judgment noAV, 
Not passion, be awake. On my return, 
I found thee — what ? I'll not describe the thing 
I found thee then ! I'll not describe my pangs 
To see thee such a thing ! The engineer 
Who lays the last stone of his sea-built tower 
It cost him years and years of toil to raise, 
And, smiling at it, tells the winds and waves 
To roar and whistle now — but, in a night, 
Beholds the tempest sporting in its place — 
May look aghast, as I did ! 



'563 



MASSEY. 



OUR WEE WHITE ROSE. 



All in our marriage garden 

Grew, smiling up to God, 
A bonnier flower than ever 

Suckt the green warmth of the sod : 
O beautiful uufathomably 

Its little life unfurled ; 
And crown of all things Avas our wee 

White Eose of all the world. 

From out a balmy bosom, 

Our bud of beauty grew : 
It fed on smiles for sunshine ; 

On tears for daintier dew : 
Aye nestling warm and tenderly. 

Our leaves of love were curled, 
So close and close, about our wee 

White Rose of all the world. 

With mystical faint fragrance 
Our house of life she filled — 

Eevealed each hour some fauy tower 
Where winged hopes might build ! 

We saw — though none like us might see- 
Such precious promise pearled 

Upon the petals of our wee 
White Rose of all the world. 
5G4 




But, evermore the halo 

Of Angel-light mcreased, 
Like the mystery of moonlight 

That folds some fairy feast. 
Snow-white, snow-soft, snow-silently 

Our darling bud up-curled. 
And dropt i' the grave — God's lap — our wee 

"NVliite Eose of all the world. 
565 



THAT MERRY, MERRY MAY. 

Our Eose was but in blossom ; 

Our life was but in spring ; 
When down the solemn midnight 

We heard the Spirits sing — 
'' Another bud of infancy 

With holy dews impoarlcd !" 
And in their hands they bore our wee 

White Eose of all the world. 

You scarce could think so small a thhig 

Could leave a loss so large ; 
Her little light such shadow fling 

From dawn to sunset's marge. 
In other springs our life may be 

In bannered bloom unfurled, 
But never, never match our Avee 

White Rose of all the world. 



THAT MERRY, MERRY MAY. 

Ah! 'tis like a tale of olden 

Time, long, long ago ; 
When the world was in its golden 

Prime, and Love was lord below ! 
Every vein of Earth was dancing 

With the Spring's new wine ! 
'Twas the pleasant time of flowers. 

When I met you, love of mine ! 
Ah ! some spirit sure was straying 

Out of heaven that day, 
When I met you, Sweet ! a-Maying 

In that merry, merry May ! 
5GG 







Little heart! it shyly open'd 
Its red leaves' love-lore, 

Like a rose that must be ripen'd 
To the dainty, dainty core. 

But its beauties daily brighten, 
And it blooms so dear, — ■ 
5G7 



BABE CHRISTABEL. 

Tho' a many Winters whiten, 
I go Maying all the year. 

And my proud heart will be praying 
Blessings on the day, 

When I met you, Sweet, a-Maying, 
In that merry, merry May. 



BABE CHRISTABEL. 

In this dim woi'ld of clouding cares, 
We rarely know, till wildered eyes 
See white wings lessening up the skies, 

The Angels with us unawares. 

And thou hast stolen a jewel. Death ! 

Shall light thy dark up like a Star, 

A Beacon kindling from afar 
Our light of love, and fainting faith. 

Thro' tears it gleams perpetually. 

And glitters thro' the thickest glooms. 
Till the eternal morning comes 

To light us o'er the Jasper Sea. 

With our best branch in tenderest leaf, 

We've strewn the Avay our Lord doth come 
And, ready for the harvest-home. 

His Reapers bind our ripest sheaf. 

Our beautiful Bird of light hath fled: 
Awhile she sat with folded wings — 
Sang round us a few hoverings — 

Then straightway into glory sped. 
568 



MASSEY. 

And white-winged Angels nurture her ; 

"With heaven's white radiance robed and crown' d, 

And all Love's purple glory round, 
She summers on the Hills of Myrrh. 

Thro' Childhood's morning-land serene 
She walkt betwixt us twain, like Love ; . 
While, in a robe of light above, 

Her better Angel walkt ui:iseen. 

Till Life's highway broke bleak and wild ; 
Then, lest her starry garments trail 
In mire, heart bleed, and courage fail. 

The Angel's arms caught up the child. 

Her wave of life hath backward roll'd 

To the great ocean, on whose shore 

We wander up and down, to store 
Some treasures of the times of old : 

And aye we seek and hunger on 
For precious pearls and relics rare. 
Strewn on the sands for us to wear 

At heart, for love of her that's gone. 

O W'eep no more ! there yet is balm 
In Gilead ! Love doth ever shed 
Eich healing where it nestles, — spread 

O'er desert pilloAvs some gi'een palm! 

God's ichor fills the hearts that bleed ; 

The best fruit loads the broken bough ; 

And in the wounds our suffcrmgs plough. 
Immortal Love sows sovereign seed. 



569 




ALLINGHAM. 

AUTUMNAL SONNET. 

Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods, 
And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt, 

And night by night the monitory blast 

Wails in the key-hole, telling how it pass'd 
O'er empty fields, or upland solitudes, 

Or grim wide wave ; and now the power is felt 
Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods 

Than any joy indulgent summer dealt. 
Dear friends, together in the glimmering eve, 

Pensive and glad, with tones that recognise 

The soft invisible dew on each one's eyes. 
It may be, somewhat thus we shall have leave 

To walk with memory, when distant lies 
Poor Earth, where we were wont to live and gi-ieAC. 
570 



MACKAY. 

YOUTH AND SORROW. 

"Get thee back, Sorrow, get thee back! 
My brow is smooth, mine eyes are bright, 
My limbs are full of health and strength. 
My cheeks are fresli, my heart is light. 
So, get thee back ! oh, get thee back ! 
Consort with age, but not with me ; 
Why shouldst thou follow on my track? 
I am too yomig to live with thee." 

" O foolish Youth, to scorn thy friend ! 
To harm thee wherefore should I seek"? 
I would not dim thy sparkling eyes, 
Nor blight the roses on thy cheek. 
I would but teach thee to be true ; 
And should I press thee overmuch, 
Ever the flowers that I bedew 
Yield sweetest fragrance to the touch." 

*' Get thee back, Soitow, get thee back ! 
I like thee not ; thy looks are chill. 
The sunshine lies upon my heart, 
Thou showest me the shadow still. 
So, get thee back ! oh, get thee back ! 
Nor touch my golden locks with grey ; 
Wliy shouldst thou follow on my track? 
Let me be happy while I may." 

" Good friend, thou needest sage advice ; 
I'll keep thy heart from growing proud, 
I'll fill thy mind with kindly thoughts, 
And link thy pity to the croAvd. 
571 



YOUTH AND SORROW. 

Wonldst have a heart of pulseless stone? 
Wouldst be too happy to be good ? 
Nor make a human Avoe thine o^vn, 
For sake of human brotherhood'?" 

" Get thee back, Sorrow, get thee back ! 
Why should I weep while I am young? — 
I have not piped — I have not danced — 
My morning songs I have not sung: 
The world is beautiful to me. 
Why tarnish it to soul and sense? 
Prithee begone ! I'll think of thee 
Some half a hundred winters hence." 

" O foolish Youth, thou knoAv'st me not ; 
I am the mistress of the earth — 
'Tis / give tenderness to love ; 
Enhance the privilege of mirth ; 
Kefine the human gold from dross ; 
And teach thee, wormling of the sod, 
To look beyond thy present loss 
To thy eternal gain with God." 

"Get thee back. Sorrow, get thee back! 

I'll learn thy lessons soon enough ; 

If vii'tuous pleasure smooth my way, 

AVhy shouldst thou seek to make it rough? 

No fruit can ripen in the dark. 

No bud can bloom in constant cold — 

So, prithee. Sorrow, miss thy mark. 

Or strike me not till I am old." 

" I am thy friend, thy best of friends ; 
No bud in constant heats can blow — 
The green fruit withers in the drought. 
But ripens where the waters flow. 

572 




The sorrows of thy youthful day 
Shall make thee wise in coming years ; 
The brightest rainbows ever play 
Above the fountains of our tears." 



Youth frowned, but Sorrow gently smiled; 
Upon his heart her hand she laid, 
And all its hidden sympathies 
Throbbed to the fingers of the INIaid. 
And when his head grew grey with Time, 
He owned that Sorrow spoke the truth, 
And that the harvest of his prime 
Was ripened by the rains of Youth. 
673 



FRANCES BROWN. 
THE HOPE OF THE RESURRECTION. 

SUGGESTED BY THE REMARK OF AN AFRICAN CHIEF TO A MISSIONARY. 

TiiY voice hath filled our forest shade!:!, 

Child of the sunless shore ! 
For never heard the ancient glades 

Such wondrous Avords before. 
Though bards our land of palms have filled 

With tales of joy or dread, — 
Yet thou alone our souls hast thrilled 

With tidings of her dead. 

The men of old, -who slept in death 

Before the forests grew, 
Wliose glory fiided here beneath, 

While yet the hills were new, — 
The Avai-riors famed in battles o'er, 

Of whom our fathers spake, — 
The wise, whose ^A-isdom shines no more, — 

Stranger, Avill they awake? 

The foes who fell in thousand fights, 

Beneath my conquering brand, — 
AVhose bones have strewn the Caffer's heights. 

The Bushman's lonely land, — 




The young, who shared my warrior-way, 
But found an early urn, — 

And the roses of my youth's bright day- 
Stranger, Avill they return? 

My mother's face was fair to see — 

My fother's glance was bright, — 
But long ago the grave from me 

Hath hid their blessed light; 
Still sweeter was the sunshine shed 

By my lost children's eyes, 
That beam upon me from the dead, — 

Stranger, will they arise? 



I 



ALL THINGS NEW. 

Was it some green grave's early guest. 

Who loved thee long and well, 
That left the land of dreamless rest. 

Such blessed truths to tell? 
For we have had our wise ones, too. 

Who feared not death's abyss, — 
The strong in hope, in love the true,— 

But none that dreamed of this ! 

Yet, if the grave restore to life 

Her ransomed spoils again, 
And ever hide the hate and strife 

That died Avith wayward men; — 
How hath my spirit missed the star 

That guides our steps above ; — 
Since only earth was given to war, — 

That better land to love ! 



ALL THINGS NEW. 
■ And He that sat upon the Throne said, Behold, I make all things new. 

New Heavens ! for the stars grow pale 

With the midnight scenes of time ! 
And the sun is weary of the wail 

That meets him in every clime : — 
And the sky grows dim with the mist of tears — 
Bring back the blue of its first, bright years! 
57G 



FRANCES BROWN. 

New Earth ! for the land and waves 

With JV weight of evil groan ; 
And its dwellings stand in a soU of graves^ 

Which fearful things have known : 
From the touch of fire, from the battle-stain. 
Gives us its Eden green again ! 

New Law ! for 'tis the arm of wrong, 

And great hath been the cry 
When oppressors' hands in their might grew strong, 

And their deeds have pierced the sky: — 
But the powers are shaken ; — oh ! requite 
With the free, unchanging law of right. 

New Faith ! for a voice of blood 

Hath been heard from every shrine, 
And the Avorld hath worshipped many a God 

With rites it deemed divine : — 
But the creeds grow old, and the fanes decay : — 
Show us, at last, some better way! 

New Hope ! for it rose among 

The thorns of a barren spot. 
Where the bloom is brief and the labour long. 

And the harvest cometh not: — 
And hearts grow weary that watch and wail — 
Give them a rainbow that fears not fate ! 

New Love! for it hath been cast 

On the troubled waters, long, 
And hoped in visions vain that passed 

Away, like a night-bird's song: — 
It may not be severed from the lost, — 
But give us the young world's love uncross'd ! 

New Life ! give the summers back 
Whose glory passed in vain, — 

r>77 o 



ALL THINGS NEW. 

Kedeem our days from the shadow black 

Of clouds without the rain, 
And the wastes which bitter waters wore — 
And our canker-eaten years restore! 

New Light! for the lamps decay 

Which shone on the old world's youth. 

And the wise man watches for a ray 
Of the undiscovered Truth : — 

Long hath he looked through the midnight dim,- 

Let the glorious Day-Spring visit him! 

Must the Earth's last hope like a shadow flee i 

Was the dream of ages vain? 
Oh! when will the bright restoring be, 

And the glory come again 
Of our promised spring, with its blessed dew — 
And His Word, that maketh all things new! 



578 



PARSONS. 
SORRENTO. 

Midway betwixt the present and the past — 
Naples and Poestum — look ! Sorrento lies : 

Ulysses buUt it, and the Sirens cast 

Their spell upon the shore, the sea, the skies 

If' thou hast dreamed, in any dream of thine, 
How Paradise appears, or those Elysian 

Immortal meadows which the gods assign 
Unto the pure of heart — behold thy vision ! 

These waters, they are blue beyond belief, 

Nor hath green England greener fields than these ; 

The sun — 'tis Italy's ; here winter's brief 
And gentle visit hardly chUls the breeze. 

Here Tasso dwelt, and here inhaled with spring 
The breath of passion and the soul of song. 

Here young Boccacio plumed his early wing, 
Thenceforth to soar above the vulgar throng. 

All charms of contrast — every nameless grace 
That lives in outline, harmony, or hue — 

So heighten all the romance of the place, 
That the rapt artist maddens at the vicAv, 

And then despairs, and throws his pencil by. 
And sits all day and looks upon the shore 

And the calm ocean with a languid eye. 
As though to labour were a laAV no more. 
679 



SOERENTO. 

Voluptuous coast! no wonder that the proud 

Imperial Koman found in yonder isle 
Some sunshine still to gild Fate's gathering cloud. 

And lull the storm of conscience for a while. 

What new Tiberius, tired of lust and life, 

May rest him here to give the woi-ld a truce, — 

A little truce from perjury and strife, 
Justice adulterate and power's misuse? 

Might the gross Bourbon — he that sleeps in spite 

Of red Vesuvius ever in his eye, 
Yet, if he wake, should tremble at its light 

As 'twere Heaven's vengeance, promised from on high,- 

Or that poor gamester, of so cunning play, 
Who, up at last, in Fortune's fickle dance. 

Aping the mighty in so mean a way, 

Makes now his dice the destinies of France, — 

Might they, or any of Oppression's band, 
Sit here and learn the lesson of the scene, 

Peace might return to many a bleeding land, 
And men grow just again, and life serene. 



580 



PARSONS. 



SAINT PERAY. 

When to any saint I pray, 
It shall be to Saint Peray. 
He alone, of all the brood, 
Ever did me any good: 
Many I have tried that are 
Humbugs in the calendar. 

On the Atlantic faint and sick, 
Once I prayed Saint Dominick: 
He was holy, sure, and wise; — 
Was't not he who did devise 
Auto da Fes and rosaries'? 
But for one in my condition 
This good saint was no physician. 

Next in pleasant Normandie, 
I made a prayer to Saint Denis, 
In the great cathedral, where 

All the ancient kings repose; 
But, how I was swindled there 

At the " Golden Fleece,"— he knows ! 

In my wanderings, vague and various, 
Reaching Naples — as I lay 
Watching Vesuvius from the bay, 

I besought Saint Januarius. 

But I was a fool to try him; 

Naught I said could liquefy him; 

And 1 swear he did me wrong. 

Keeping me shut up so long 
581 



SAINT PERAY. 

In that pest-house, with obscene 

Jews and Greeks and thmgs unclean — 

"What need had I of quarantuae'? 

In Sicily at least a score, — 
In Spain about as many more, — 
And in Rome almost as many 
As the loves of Don Giovanni, 
Did I pray to — sans reply; 
Devil take the tribe! — said I. 

Worn with travel, tired and lame, 
To Assisi's walls I came : 
Sad and full of homesick fancies, 
I addressed me to Saint Francis: 
But the beggar never did 
Anything as he was bid, 
Never gave me aught but fleas, — 
Plenty had I at Assise. 

But in Provence, near Vaucluse, 

Hard by the Rhone, I found a Saint 
Gifted with a wondrous juice 

Potent for the worst complaint. 
'Twas at Avignon that first — 
In the Avitching time of thirst — 
To my brain the knowledge came 
Of this blessed Catholic's name ; 
Forty miles of dust that day 
Made me welcome Saint Peray. 

Though till then I had not heard 
Aught about him, ere a third 
Of a litre passed my lips. 
All saints else were in eclipse. 
For his gentle spirit glided 
With such magic into mine, 
582 



PARSONS. 

That methought such bliss as I did 

Poet never drew from wine. 
Rest he gave me and refection, — 
Chastened hopes, calm retrospection, — 
Softened images of sorrow, 
Bright forebodings for the morrow, — 
Charity for what is past, — 
Faith in something good at last. 

Now, why should any almanack 

The name of this good creature lack? 

Wherefore should the breviary 

Omit a saint so sage and merry? 

The Pope himself should grant a day 

Especially to Saint Peray. 

But, since no day hath been appointed, 

On purpose, by the Lord's anointed. 

Let us not wait — we'll do him right ; 

Send round your bottles, Hal — and set your night. 



683 




J. EUSSELL LOWELL. 



THE SINGING LEAVES, 



A BALLAD. 



What fairings will ye that I bring'?" 
Said the king to his daughters three ; 

•For I to Vanity Fair am bound, 
Now say what shall they bef 



Then up and spake the eldest daughter. 

The lady tall and grand, 
"Ye shall bring to me the diamonds great. 

And gold rings for my hand." 

584- 



J. EUSSELL LOWELL. 

Thereafter spake the second daughter. 

That was both white and red, 
•^ For me bring silk that will stand alone 

And a gold comb for my head." 

Then lowly spake the least daughter, 
That was whiter than thistle-down, 

And among the gold of her blithesome hair 
Dim shone the golden crown. 

" There came a bird at sunrise 
And sang 'neath my bower-eaves, 

And sent the sweet dream that bade me 
To ask for the Singing Leaves." 

The vein of his forehead reddened 

In a ridge of angry scorn, 
"Well have ye spoken, my two eldest, 

And chosen as ye were born. 

" But thou, like a thing of peasant blood. 
That is happy binding the sheaves !" — 

Then he saw her dead mother in her face. 
And said, "Thou shalt have thy Leaves." 



He bade farewell to the elder twain, 
And touched his lips to their cheek, 

But 'twas thrice he kiss'd the Princess Anne, 
And looked back and did not speak. 

And he has ridden three days and nights. 

Till he came to Vanity Fair ; 
And easy it was to buy gems and gold. 

But no Singing Leaves were there. 

585 



THE SINGING LEAVES. 

Then deep in the greenwood rode he. 

And asked of every tree : 
"Oh, if ye have ever a singing leaf, 

I pray you to give it me!" 

But the trees all kept their counsel ; 

They said neither yea or nay ; 
Only there sighed from the pine-tops 

A music of seas far away. 

Only the aspen pattered 

With a sound like growing rain. 

That fell ever fast and faster, 
Then faltered to silence agaui. 

"Oh, where shall I find a little foot-page, 
That would win both hose and shoon, 

And will bring to me these Singing Leaves, 
If they grow 'neath sun or moon ^" 

Then lightly turned him Walter, the page, 

By the stirrup as he ran, 
"Now pledge to me the truesome word 

Of a knight and gentleman, 

"That you will give me the first, first thing 

You meet at your castle-gate ; 
And the princess shall get the Singing Leaves, 

Or mine be the traitor's fate !" 

The kmg's head dropped on his bosom 

A moment, as it might be — 
'Twill be my hound, he thought, and he said. 

"I pledge my word to thee." 

Then Walter took from next his heart 

A packet small and thin ; 
" And give you this to the Princess Anne — 

The Singing Leaves are therein." 

586 



J. RUSSELL LOWELL. 



ni. 



As the king rode in, o'er the loud drawbridge 

A maiden to meet him ran; 
And, " Welcome, father !" she laughed and cried 

Together, the Princess Anne. 

" Lo, here thy Smging Leaves," quoth he ; 

"And wo, but they cost me dear!" 
She took the packet, and her smile 

Deepened down beneath the tear. 

It deepened down to her very heart. 

And then flushed back again. 
And lighted her tears as the sudden sun 

Transfigures the summer ram. 

And the first leaf, when she opened it. 

Sang, "I am Walter, the page. 
And the songs I smg 'neath thy wmdow 

Are all my heritage!" 

And the second leaf sang, " But in the land 

That is neither on earth or sea, 
My harp and I are lords of more 

Than thrice this kingdom's fee!" 

And the thii'd leaf sang, "Be mine! be mine!' 

And still it sang, "Be mine!" 
Then sweeter it sang and ever sweeter, 

And said, " I am thine, thme, thine !" 

At the first leaf she grew pale enough, 

At the second she turned aside, 
At the third, 'twas as if a lily flushed 

With a rose's red heart's tide. 

587 



LONGING. 

" Good counsel gave the bird," she said : 
" I have my wish thrice o'er ; 

For they sing to my very heart," she said 
"And it sings with them evermore." 



LONGING. 

Uf all the myriad moods of mind 

That through the soul come thronging, 
Which one was e'er so dear, so kind, 

So beautiful, as Longing? 
The thing we long for, that we are 

For one transcendent moment. 
Before the Present poor and bare 

Can make its sneering comment. 

Still, through our paltry stir and strife. 

Glows down the wished Ideal, 
And Longing moulds in clay what Life 

Carves in the marble Real ; 
To let the new life in, we know, 

Desire must ope the portal ; — 
Perhaps the longing to be so 

Helps make the soul immortal. 

Longing is God's fresh heavenward will. 
With our poor earthward striving ; 

We quench it that we may be still 
Content with merely living ; 



J. RUSSELL LOWELL. 

But would we learn that heart's full scope 
Which we are hourly wronging, 

Our lives must climb from hope to hope, 
And realize our longing. 

Ah ! let us hope that to our praise 

Good God not only reckons 
The moments when we tread his ways. 

But when the spirit beckons, — 
That some slight good is also wrought 

Beyond self-satisfaction. 
When we are simply good in thought, 

Howe'er we fail in action. 



AUF WIEDERSEHEN! 



SUMMER. 

The little gate was reached at last, 
Half hid in lilacs down the lane ; 
She pushed it wide, and as she passed 
A wistful look she backward cast. 
And said, — " Auf Wiedersehen .'" 

With hand on latch, a vision white 
Lingered, reluctant, and again 

Half doubting if she did aright; 

Soft as the dews that fell that night, 
She said, — " Auf Wiedersehen .'" 
589 



PALINODE. 

The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stau* ; 

I linger in delicious pain ; 
Ah ! in that chamber, whose rich air 
To breathe in thought I scarcely dare. 

Thinks she, — '■'■ Auf Wkdersehen T 

'Tis thirteen years ; once more I press 
The turf that silences the lane ; 

I hear the rustle of her dress, 

I smell the lUacs, and — ah, yes, 
I hear '■'■ Auf Wiedersehen /" 

Sweet piece of bashful maiden art ! 

The English words had seemed too fain ? 
But these — they drew us heart to heart, 
Yet held us tenderly apart, — 

She said, — ^^ Auf Wiedersehen I" 



PALINODE. 



AUTUMN. 



Still thirteen years : 'tis autumn now, 

On field and hill, in heart and brain ; 
The naked trees at evening sough, 
The leaf to the forsaken bough 
Sighs not, — " We meet again !" 
590 



J. EUSSELL LOWELL. 

Two watched yon oriole's pendent dome 
That now is void, and dank with rain, 

And one — O, hope more frail than foam ! 

The bird to his deserted home 
Sings not, — " We meet again !" 

The loath gate swings with rusty creak ; 

Once, parting there, we played at pain ; 
There came a parting, wlien the weak 
And fading lips essayed to speak 

Vainly, — " We meet again !" 

Somewhere is comfort, somewhere faith, 

Though thou in outer dark remain ; 
One sweet, sad voice ennobles death. 
And still, for eighteen centuries saith 
Softly, — "Ye meet again!" 

If earth another grave must bear. 

Yet heaven hath won a sweeter strain, 
And something whispers to despair. 
That, from an orient chamber there, 
Floats down, "We meet again!" 



591 



MAEIA LOWELL. 
THE ALPINE SHEEP. 

ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND AFTER THE LOSS OF A CHILD. 

When on my ear your loss was knelled. 

And tender sympatliy upburst, 
A little spring from memory welled, 

VV^hich once had quenched my bitter thirst, 

And I was fain to bear to you 

A portion of its mild relief, 
That it might be as healing dew, 

To steal some fever from your grief. 

After oui* child's untroubled breath 

Up to the Father took its way. 
And on our home the shade of Death, 

Like a long twilight haunting lay. 

And friends came round, with us to Aveep 

Her little spirit's swift remove. 
The story of the Alpine sheep 

Was told to us by one we love. 

They, in the valley's sheltering care, 
Soon crop the meadows' tender prime. 

And when the sod grows brown and bare, 
The Shepherd strives to make them climb 

To airy shelves of pasture green, 

That hang along the mountam's side, 

Where grass and flowers together lean. 

And down through mist the sunbeams slide. 

.592 



MARIA LOWELL. 

But nought can tempt the timid things 
The steep and rugged path to try, 

Though sweet the shepherd calls and sings, 
And seared below the pastures lie. 

Till in his arms his lambs he takes, 

Along the dizzy verge to go, 
Then, heedless of the rifts and breaks, 

They follow on o'er rock and snow. 

And in those pastures, lifted fair. 
More dewy-soft than lowland mead. 

The shepherd drops his tender care. 
And sheep and lambs together feed. 

This parable, by Nature breathed. 
Blew on me as the south-wind free 

O'er frozen brooks, that flow unsheathed 
From icy thraldom to the sea. 

A blissful vision, through the night 
Would all my happy senses sway 

Of the Good Shepherd on the height, 
Or clunbing up the starry way, 

Holding our little lamb asleep. 

While, like the murmur of the sea, 

Sounded that voice along the deep, 
Saying, " Arise and follow me !" 



593 



CAREY. 

PICTURES OF MEMORY. 

Among the beautiful picture? 

That hang on Memory's wall, 
Is one of a dim old forest, 

That seemeth best of all : 
Not for its gnarled oaks olden, 

Dark mth the mistletoe, 
Not for the violets golden 

That sprinkle the vale below ; 
Not for the milk-white lilies 

That lean from the fragrant hedge. 
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams. 

And stealing their golden edge ; 
Not for the vines on the upland 

Where the bright red berries rest, 
Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip, 

It seemeth to me the best. 

I once had a little brother. 

With eyes that were dark and deep — 
Tn tlie lap of that old dim forest 

He lieth in peace asleep : 
Light as the down of the thistle. 

Free as the winds that blow. 
We roved there the beautiful summers, 

The summers of long ago ; 
But his feet on the hills grew wear}-. 

And, one of the autumn eves. 
I made for my little brother 

A bed of the yellow leaves. 



CAREY. 

Sweetly his pale arms folded 

My neck in a meek embrace, 
As the light of immortal beauty 

Silently covered his face : 
And when the arrows of sunset 

Lodged in the tree-tops bright, 
He fell, in his saint-like beauty, 

Asleep by the gates of light. 
Therefore, of all the pictures 

That hang on Memory's wall, 
The one of the dim old forest 

Seemeth the best of all. 



595 




EEAD. 

THE WAYSIDE SPRING. 

Fair dweller by the dusty way — 
Bright saint within a mossy shrine. 

The tribute of a heart to-day 
Weary and worn is thine. 
o9G 



KEAD. 

The earliest bloppoms of tlie year, 
The sweet-brier and the violet 

The pious hand of Spring has here 
Upon thy altar set. 

And not alone to thee is given 

The homage of the pilgrim's knee — 

But oft the sweetest birds of Heaven 
Glide down and sing to thee. 

Here daily from his beechen cell 
The hermit squiiTel steals to drink, 

And flocks which cluster to their bell 
Eecline along thy brink. 

And here the waggoner blocks his wheels, 
To quaff the cool and generous boon ; 

Here, from the sultry harvest fields 
The reapers rest at noon. 

And oft the beggar marked with tan, 
In rusty garments grey with dust, 

Here sits and dips his little can. 
And breaks his scanty crust ; 

And, lulled beside thy whispering sti-eani, 
Oft drops to slumber unawares, 

And sees the angel of his dream 
Upon celestial stairs. 

Dear dweller by the dusty way. 
Thou saint Avithin a mossy shrine, 

Tlie tribute of a heart to-day 
AVoary and worn is thine ! 



607 



THE CLOSING SCENE. 



THE CLOSING SCENE. 



Within this sober realm of leafless trees, 
The russet year inhaled the dreamy au", 

Like some tanned reaper in his hour of ease, 
AVhen all the fields are lying brown and bare. 

The gray barns, looking from their hazy hills 
O'er the dim waters widening in the vales, 

Sent down the air a greeting to the mills, 
On the dull thunder of alternate flails. 

All sights were mellowed, and all sounds subdued, 
The hills seemed farther, and the streams sang low : 

As in a dream, the distant woodman hewed 
His winter log with many a muffied blow. 

Th' embattled forests, erewhile armed in gold, 
Their banners bright with every martial hue, 

Now stood, like some sad beaten host of old, 
WithdraAMi afar in Time's remotest blue. 

On slumb'rous wings the vulture held his flight ; 

The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's complaint 
And like a star slow drowning in the light. 

The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint. 

The sentinel cock upon the hill-side crew ; 

Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before — 
Silent till some replying wanderer blew 

His alien horn, and then was heard no more 
.598 



READ. 

Where erst the jay within the elm's tall crest 

Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged young ; 

And where the oriole hung her swaying nest 
By every light wind like a censer SAvung ; 

^Vhere sang the noisy masons of the eves, 

The busy swallows circling ever near, 

Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes, 

An early harvest and a plenteous year ; 
* 

Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast 
Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn. 

To warn the reapers of the rosy east. 

All now was songless, empty, and forlorn. 

Alone, from out the stubble piped the quail, 

And croaked the crow through all the dreary gloom 

Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale. 
Made echo to the distant cottage loom. 

There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers ; 

The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by niglit 
The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers, 

Sailed slowly by — passed noiseless out of sight. 

Amid all this — in this most cheerless air. 

And where the woodbine shed upon the porch 

Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there, 
Firing the floor with his inverted torch — 

Amid all this, the centre of the scene, 

The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread 

Plied her swift wheel, and with her joyless mien 
Sat like a Fate, and watched the flying thread. 
599 



THE CLOSING SCENE. 

She had known sorrow. Pie had Avalked with her. 

Oft supped, and broke the bitter ashen crust, 
And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir 

Of his black mantle trailing in the dust. 

While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom. 

Her country summoned, and she gave her all, 
And twice War bowed to her his sable plume ; 

Ke-gave the swords to rust upon her wall. 

Re-gave the swords — but not the hand that dreAV, 
And struck for Liberty the dying blow ; 

Nor him, who to his sire and country true 
Fell 'mid the ranks of the invading foe. 

Long, but not loud, the droning Avheel went on, 
Like the low murmurs of a hive at noon ; 

Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone 

Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune. 

At last the thread was snapped, her head was bowed: 
Life dropped the distaff through his hands serene ; 

And loving neighbours smoothed her careful shroud, 
AVhilc Death and Winter closed the autumn scene- 



600 



BAYx\.RD TAYLOR. 



KILIMANDJARO. 

Hail to thee, monarch of African mountains, 
Remote, inaccessible, silent, and lone — 
Who, from the heart of the tropical fervours, 
Liftest to heaven thine alien snows, 
Feeding for ever the fountains that make thee 
P'ather of Nile and Creator of Egypt ! 

The years of (he world are engraved on tliy forehead 
Time's morning blushed red on thy first-fallen snows ; 
Yet lost in the wilderness, nameless, unnoted, 
Of man unbeholden, thou wert not till now. 
KnoAvledge alone is the being of Nature, 
(living a soul to her manifold features. 
Lighting through paths of the primitive darkness 
'i'lie footsteps of Truth and the vision of Song. 
Knowledge has born thee anew to Creation, 
And long-baffled Time at thy baptism rejoices. 
Take, then, a name, and be filled with existence. 
Yea, be exultant in sovereign glory, 
While from the hand of the wandering poet 
Drops the first garland of song at thy feet. 

Floating alone, on the flood of thv making. 
Through Africa's mystery, silence, and fire, 
1m ! in my palm, like the Eastern enchanter. 
I dip from the waters a magical mirror. 
And thou art revealed to my purified vision. 

COl 



KILIMANDJARO. 

I see thee, supreme in the midst of thy co-mates, 
Standing alone 'twixt the Earth and the Heavens. 
Heir of the Sunset and HerakI of Morn. 
Zone above zone, to thy shouklers of granite. 
The climates of Earth are displayed, as an index, 
Giving the scope of the Book of Creation. 
There, in the gorges that widen, descending 
From cloud and from cold into summer eternal, 
Gather the threads of the ice-gendered fountains- 
Gather to riotous torrents of ci-ystal. 
And, giving each shelvy recess Avhere they dally 
The blooms of the North and its evergreen turfage, 
Leap to the land of the lion and lotus ! 
There, in the wondering air of the Tropics 
Shivers the Aspen, still dreaming of cold : 
There stretches the Oak, from the loftiest ledges. 
His ai'ms to the far-away lands of his brothers. 
And the Pine-tree looks down on his rival, the Palm. 

Bathed in the tenderest purple of distance. 

Tinted and shadowed by pencils of air, 

Thy battlements hang o'er the slopes and the forests, 

Seats of the Gods in the limitless ether, 

Looming sublimely aloft and afar. 

Above them, like folds of imperial ermine, 

Sparkle the snow-fields that furrow thy forehead — ■ 

Desolate realms, inaccessible, silent, 

Chasms and caverns whei'e Day is a stranger. 

Garners where storeth his treasures the Thunder, 

The Lightning his falchion, his arrows the Hail ! 

Sovereign Mountain, thy brothers give welcome : 
They, the baptized and the crowned of ages, 
AVatch-towers of Continents, altars of Earth, 
Welcome thee now to their mighty assembly. 
Mont Blanc, in the roar of his mad avalanches, 
Hails thy accession; superb Orizaba, 

G02 



BAYAED TAYLOR. 

Belted with beech and ensandallpd -with paliri : 
Chimborazo, the lord of the regions of noonday ; - 
Mingle their sounds in magnificent chorus 
With gi-eeting august from the Pillars of lieuveiu 
Who, in the urns of the Indian Ganges 
Filters the snows of their sacred dominions, 
Unmarked with a footprint, unseen but of God. 

Lo ! xmto each is the seal of his lordship, 

Nor questioned the right that his majesty giveth : 

Each in his awful supremacy forces 

Worship and reverence, wonder and joy. 

Absolute all, yet in dignity varied. 

None has a claim to the honours of story. 

Or the superior splendours of song, 

Greater than thou, in thy mystery mantled — 

Thou, the sole monarch of African mountains. 

Father of Nile and Creator of Egypt! 



BEDOUIN SONG. 

From the Desert I come to thee 

On a stallion shod with fire ; 
And the winds are left behind 

In the speed of my desii'C- 
Under thy window I stand, 

And the midnight hears my cry: 
I love thee, I love but thee, 
With a love that shall not die 
Till the sun groivs cold, 
And the stars are old, 
And the leaves of the Judgment 
Book unfold.' 
603 



BEDOUIN SONG. 

Look from thy Avindow and see 

My passion and my jiain ; 
I lie on the sands below, 

And I faint in thy disdain. 
Let the night-winds touch thy brow 

With the heat of my burning sigh, 
jVnd melt thee to hear the vow 
Of a love that shall not die 
7Y// the sun groics cold, 
And the stars are old, 
And the leaves of the Judgment 
Book unfold! 

My steps are nightly driven, 

By the fever in my breast, 
To hear from thy lattice breathed 

The word that shall give me rest. 
Open the door of thy heart, 

And open thy chamber door, 
And my kisses shall teach thy lips 
The love that shall fade no more 
Till the sun groivs cold, 
And the stars are old, 
And the leaves of the Judgment 
Book unfold/ 



604 



STODDARD. 
THE TWO BRIDES. 

I SAW two maids at the kirk, 

And both were fair and sweel 
One was in her bridal robe, 

One in her winding-sheet. 
The choristers sang the hymn, 

The sacred rites were read — 
And one for life to Life, 

And one to Death was wed 1 
They went to their bridal beds 

In loveliness and bloom : 
One in a merry castle, 

One in a solemn tomb. 
One to the Avorld of sleep, 

Lock'd in the arms of Love ; 
And one in the arms of Death 

Pass'd to the heavens above. 
One to the morrow woke, 

In a world of sin and pain ; 
Dut the other was happier far, 
And never woke again. 



605 



: -i'^^^''^f^r^v 




BUTLER. 



NOTHING TO WEAR. 

AN EPISODE OF CITY LIFE. 

Miss Floha M'Flimsey, of Madison Square, 
Has made tliree separate journeys to Paris, 

And lier father assures me, each time she was there, 
That she and her friend Mrs. Harris, 

%*S. GOG 



BUTLER. 

(Not the lady whose name is so famous in history, 

But plain Mrs. H., without romance or mystery,) 

Spent six consecutive weeks without stopping, 

In one continuous round of shopping ; 

Shopping alone, and shopping together, 

At all hours of the day, and in all sorts of weather ; 

For all manner of things that a w^oman can put 

On the crown of her head or the sole of her foot, 

Or wrap round her shoulders, or fit round her waist, 

Or that can be sewed on, or pinned on, or laced. 

Or tied on with a string, or stitched on Avith a bow, 

In front or behind, aboAC or below : 

For bonnets, mantillas, capes, collars, and shawls ; 

Dresses for breakfasts, and dinners, and balls ; 

Dresses to sit in, and stand in, and walk in ; 

Dresses to dance in, and flirt in, and talk in ; 

Dresses in which to do nothing at all ; 

Dresses for winter, spring, summer, and fall ; 

All of thein different in colour and pattern, — 

Silk, muslin, and lace, crape, velvet, and satin, 

Brocade, and broadcloth, and other material. 

Quite as expensive and much more ethereal ; 

In short, for all things that could ever be thought of, 

Or milliner, modiste, or tradesman be bought of, 

From ten-thousand-franc robes to twenty-sous frills ; 
In all quarters of Paris, and to every store. 
While M'Flimsey in vain stormed, scolded, and swore, 

They footed the streets, and he footed the bills. 



The last trip, their goods shipped by the steamer Arago 
Formed, M'Flimsey declares, the bulk of her cargo, 
Not to mention a quantity kept from the rest, 
Sufficient to fill the largest-sized chest. 
Which did not appear on the ship's manifest. 
But foi- which the ladies themselves manifested 
Such particular interest, that they invested 

607 



NOTHING TO WEAR. 

Their own proper persons in layers and rows 
Of muslins, embroideries, worked under-clotlies, 
Gloves, handkerchiefs, scarfs, and such trifles as those ; 
Then, wrapped in great shawls, like Circassian beauties, 
Gave good-bij to the ship, and go-hij to the duties. 
Her relations at home all marvelled no doubt, 
Miss Flora had grown so enormously stout 

For an actual belle and a possible bride ; 
lUit the miracle ceased when she turned inside out, 

And the truth came to light, and the dry goods beside, 
Which; in spite of Collector and Custom-house sentry, 
Had entered the port without any entry. 

And yet, though scarce three months have passed since the day 
This merchandise went, on tAvelve carts, up Broadway, 
This same Miss M'Flimsey, of Madison Square, 
The last time we met, was in utter despair, 
Because she had nothing whatever to wear! 

Nothing to wear! Now, as this is a true ditty, 

I do not assert — this, you know, is betAveen us — 
That she's in a state of absolute nudity, 

Like Powers' Greek Slave, or the Medici Venus ; 
But I do mean to say, I have heard her declare, 

When, at the same moment, she had on a dress 
* Which cost five hundred dollars, and not a cent less. 

And jewelry worth ten times more, I should guess. 
That she had not a thing in the wide Avorld to wear! 

I should mention just here, that out of Miss Flora's 
Two hundred and fifty or sixty adorers, 
I had just been selected as he who should throw all 
The rest in the shade, by the gracious bestowal 
On myself, after twenty or thirty rejections. 
Of those fossil remains which she called her "affections," 
And that rather decayed, but well-kno\A'n work of art, 
Which Miss Flora persisted in styling "her lieart." 

608 



BUTLER. 

So we were engaged. Oux' troth had been plighted, 

Not by moonbeam or starbeam, by fountain or grove, 

But in a front parlour, most brilliantly lighted, 

Beneath the gas-fixtures w^e whispered our love. 

Without any romance, or raptures, or sighs, 

Without any tears in Miss Flora's blue eyes, 

Or blushes, or transports, or such silly actions, 

It was one of the quietest business transactions. 

With a very small sprinkling of sentiment, if any, 

And a very large diamond imported by TitFany. 

On her virginal lips while I printed a kiss. 

She exclaimed, as a sort of parenthesis. 

And by way of putting me quite at my ease, 

"You know, I'm to polka as much as I please. 

And flirt when I like — now stop, don't you speak — 

And you must not come here more than twice in the week, 

Or talk to me either at party or ball. 

But always be ready to come when I call ; 

So don't prose to me about duty and stuff, 

If we don't break this off, there will be time enough 

For that sort of thing ; but the bargain must be 

That, as long as I choose, I am perfectly free. 

For this is a sort of engagement, you see. 

Which is binding on you but not binding on me." 

Well, having thus wooed Miss M'Flimsey and gained her, 

With the silks, crinolines, and hoops that contained her, 

I had, as I thought, a contingent remainder 

At least in the property, and the best right 

To appear as its escort by day and by night ; 

And it being the week of the Stuckup's grand ball — 

Their cards had been out a fortnight or so, 

And set all the Avenue on the tip-toe — 
I considered it only my duty to call. 

And see if Miss Flora intended to go. 
I found her — as ladies ai-e apt to be found. 
When the time intervening between the first sound 

609 (> o 



NOTHING TO WEAR. 

Of the bell and the visitor's entry is shorter 

Than usual — I found ; I won't say — I caught her — 

Intent on the pier-glass, undoubtedly meaning 

To see if perhaps it didn't need cleaning. 

She turned as I entered — "Why, Harry, you sinner, 

I thought that you went to the Flashers' to dinner!" 

" So I did," I replied, "but the dinner is swallowed, 

And digested, I trust, for 'tis now nine and more. 
So being relieved from that duty, I followed 

Inclination, which led me, you see, to your door. 
And now will your ladyship so condescend 
As just to inform me if you intend 
Your beauty, and graces, and presence to lend, 
(All which, when I own, I hope no one will borrow) 
To the Stuckup's, whose party, you know, is to-morrow?" 

The fair Flora looked up with a pitiful air, 
And answered quite promptly, " Why Harry, mon cher, 
I should like above all things to go with you there ; 
But really and truly — I've nothing to wear." 

" Nothing to wear ! go just as you are ; 

Wear the dress you have on, and you'll be by far, 

I engage, the most bright and particular star 

On the Stuck up horizon" — I stopped, for her eye. 
Notwithstanding this delicate onset of flattery, 
Opened on me at once a most terrible battery 

Of scorn and amazement. She made no reply. 
But gave a slight turn to the end of her nose 

(That pure Grecian feature), as much as to say, 
'• How absurd that any sane man should suppose 
That a lady would go to a ball in the clothes. 

No matter how fine, that she wears every day !" 

So I ventured again — "Wear your crimson brocade," 
(Second turn up of nose) — " That's too dark by a shade." 

610 



BUTLER. 

•'Your blue silk" — "That's too heavy;" "Your pink" — "That's too light. 

"Wear tulle over satiu" — "I can't endure white." 

" Your rose-coloured, then, the best of the batch" — 

" I haven't a thread of point lace to match." 

"Your brown moir antique'^ — "Y^'es, and look like a Quaker;" 

"The pearl-coloured" — "I would, but that plaguy dress-maker 

Has had it a week" — " Then that exquisite lilac, 

In which you Avould melt the heart of a Shylock." 

(Here the nose took again the same elevation) 

" I wouldn't wear that for the whole of creation." 

"Why nof? It's my fancy, there's nothing could strike it 
As more comme il faut — " " Y^'es, but dear me, that lean 

Sophronia Stuckup has got one just like it, 
And I Avon't appear dressed like a chit of sixteen." 
" Then that splendid purple, that SAveet Mazarine ; 
That superb jwint cVaujidlle, that imperial green, 
That zephyr-like tarleton, that rich grenadine''' — 
"Not one of all which is fit to be seen," 
Said the lady, becoming excited and flushed. 
"Then wear," I exclaimed, in a tone which quite crushed 

Opposition, " that gorgeous toilette which you sported 
In Paris last spring, at the grand presentation, 
When you quite turned the head of the head of the nation ; 

And by all the grand court were so very much courted." 

The end of the nose was portentovisly tipped up. 
And both the bright eyes shot forth indignation. 
As she burst upon me with the fierce exclamation, 
" I have worn it three times at the least calculation, 

And that and the most of my dresses are ripped up!" 
Here / ripped out something, perhaps rather rash, 

Quite innocent, though ; but, to use an expression 
More striking than classic, it "settled my hash," 

And proved very soon the last act of our session. 
" Fiddlesticks, is it. Sir % I wonder the ceiling 
Doesn't fall down and crush you — oh, you men have no feeling, 
You selfish, unnatural, illiberal creatures, 
Who set yourselves up as patterns and preachers. 

Gil 



NOTHING TO WEAR. 

Your silly pretence — why, what a mere guess it is ! 

Pray, what do you know of a woman's necessities'? 

I have told you and shown you I've nothing to wear, 

And it's perfectly plain you not only don't care, 

But you do not believe me" (here the nose went still higher). 

" I suppose if you dared you would call me a liar. 

Our engagement is ended, Sir— yes, on the spot; 

You're a brute, and a monster, and — I don't know what." 

1 mildly suggested the words — Hottentot, 

Pickpocket, and cannibal, Tartar, and thief, 

As gentle expletives which might give relief; 

liut this only proved as spark to the powder, 

And the storm I had raised came faster and louder, 

It blew and it rained, thundered, lightened, and hailed 

Interjections, verbs, pronouns, till language quite failed 

To express the abusive, and then its arrears 

Were brought up all at once by a torrent of tears. 

And my last faint, despairing attempt at an obs- 

Ervation was lost in a tempest of sobs. 

^Vell, I felt for the lady, and felt for my hat, too, 

Improvised on the crown of the latter a tattoo, 

In lieu of expressing the feelings which lay 

Quite too deep for words, as Wordsworth would say; 

Then, without going through the form of a bow, 

Found myself in the entry — I hardly knew how — 

On door-step and sidewalk, past lamp-post and square, ^ 

At home and up stairs, in my own easy chair ; 

Poked my feet into slippers, my fire into blaze, 
And said to myself, as I lit my cigar, 
Supposing a man had the wealth of the Czar 

Of the Russias to boot, for the rest of his days, 
On the whole, do you think he would have much to spare 
If he married a woman with nothing to wear? 

Since that night, taking pains that it should not be bruited 
Abroad in society, I've instituted 
A course of inquiry, extensive and thorough, 

612 



BUTLER. 

On this vital subject, and find, to my horror, 

That the fair Flora's case is by no means surprising. 

But that there exists the greatest distress 
In our female community, solely arising 

From this unsupplied destitution of dress, 
Whose unfortunate victims are filling the air 
With the pitiful wail of "Nothing to wear." 
Researches in some of the " Upper Ten" districts 
Reveal the most painful and startling statistics, 
Of which let me mention only a few: 
In one single house, on the Fifth Avenue, 
Three young ladies were found, all below twenty-two, 
Who have been three whole weeks without any thing new 
In the way of flounced silks, and thus left in the lurch 
Are unable to go to ball, concert, or church. 
In another large mansion near the same place 
Was found a deplorable, heart-rending case 
Of entire destitution of Brussels point lace. 
In a neighbouring block there was found, in three calls, 
Total want, long continued, of camels' -hair shawls ; 
And a suffering family, whose case exhibits 
The most pressing need of real ermine tippets ; 
One deserving young lady almost unable 
To survive for the want of a new Russian sable ; 
Another confined to the house, when it's Avindier 
Than usual, because her shawl isn't India. 
Still another, whose tortures have been most terrific 
Ever since the sad loss of the steamer Pacific, 
In which were ingulfed, not friend or relation, 
(For whose fate she perhaps might have found consolation, 
Or borne it, at least, with serene resignation,) 
But the choicest assortment of French sleeves and collars 
Ever sent out from Paris, worth thousands of dollars. 
And all as to style most recherche and rare. 
The want of which leaves her with nothing to wear. 
And renders her life so drear and dyspeptic 
That she's quite a recluse, and almost a sceptic, 

G13 



NOTHING TO WEAR. 

For she touehlngly says that this sort of grief 

Can not find in Eeligion the slightest relief, 

And Philosophy has not a maxim to spare 

For the victims of such overwhelming despair. 

But the saddest by far of all these sad features 

Is the cruelty practised upon the poor creatui-es 

By husbands and fathers, real Bluebeards and Timons, 

Who resist the most touching appeals made for diamonds 

By their wives and their daughters, and leave them for days 

Unsupplied with new jewelry, fans, or bouquets, 

Even laugh at their miseries whenever they have a chance, 

And deride their demands as useless extravagance ; 

One case of a bride was brought to my view, 

Too sad for belief, but, alas! 'twas too true, 

Whose husband refused, as savage as Charon, 

To permit her to take more than ten trunks to Sharon. 

The consequence was, that when she got there. 

At the end of three weeks she had nothing to w-ear, 

And when she proposed to finish the season 

At Newport, the monster refused out and out, 

For his infamous conduct alleging no reason, 

Except that the waters w^ere good for his gout ; 

Such treatment as this was too shocking, of course, 

And proceedings are now going on for divorce. 

N 

But why harrow the feelings by lifting the curtain 
From these scenes of woe? Enough, it is certain, 
Has here been disclosed to stir up the pity 
Of every benevolent heart in the city, 
And spur up Humanity into a canter 
To rush and relieve these sad cases instanter. 
Won't somebody, moved by this touching description. 
Come forward to-morrow and head a subscription? 
Won't some kind philanthropist, seeing that aid is 
So needed at once by these indigent ladies, 
Take chai'ge of the matter ? or won't Peter CoorEU 
The corner-stone lay of some splendid super- 

6U 



BUTLER. 

Structure, like that which to-day links his name 

In the Union unending of honour and fame ; 

And found a new charity just for the care 

Of these unhappy women with nothing to wear, 

Which, in view of the cash which would daily be claimed. 

The Laying-out Hospital well might be named'? 

Won't Stewart, or some of our dry-goods importers. 

Take a contract for clothing our wives and our daughters'? 

Or, to furnish the cash to supply these distresses. 

And life's pathway strew with shawls, collars, and dresses. 

Ere the want of them makes it much rougher and thornier. 

Won't some one discover a new California ? 

Oh ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny day 
Please trundle your hoops just out of Broadway, 
From its Avhirl and its bustle, its fashion and pride. 
And the temples of Trade which tower on each side. 
To the alleys and lanes, where Misfortune and Guilt 
Their children have gathered, their city have built ; 
Where Hunger and Vice, like twin beasts of prey. 

Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair ; 
Raise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine broidered skirt, 
Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirt, 

Grope through the dark dens, climb the rickety stair 
To the garret, where wretches, the young and the old. 
Half-starved and half-naked, lie crouched from the cold. 
See those skeleton limbs, those frost-bitten feet. 
All bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street; 
Hear the sharp cry of childhood, the deep groans that swell 

From the poor dying creature who writhes on the floor, 
Hear the curses that sound like the echoes of Hell, 

As you sicken and shudder and fly from the door; 
Then home to your wardrobes, and say, if you dare — 
Spoiled children of Fashion — you've nothing to wear! 

And oh, if perchance there should be a sphere. 
Where all is made right which so puzzles us here, 

G15 



NOTHING TO WEAR. 

Where the glare, and the glitter, and tinsel of Time 
Fade and die in the light of that region sublime, 
Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense, 
Unscreened by its traj^pings, and shows, and pretence, 
Must be clothed for the life and the service above. 
With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love ; 
Oh, daughters of Earth ! foolish virgins, beware ! 
Lest in that upper realm you have nothing to wear! 




616 



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